Tonight is a full moon. As I am driven home, I look up at the sky. The moon hangs there, swollen and yellow and looking particularly close. I see the rabbit inscribed on its surface in grey-orange lunar ink.

It seems closer than it did one month ago, and darker. Over Catalina it was a pale silver orb; here it is a swelling, a jarring mark in the otherwise blank, grey-black sky.

I lean my head back in the seat as the car pulls to a noisy halt at a stop sign, and close my eyes. When I open them again, the clouds have shifted and the moon is just a pale glow directly ahead. I can no longer see the gap through which I previously charted its surface in my mind.

I am tempted to howl like we did that night when were were together and swaying under the lights of the basketball court, the flashing strobe, and the stars. The milk truck wavers into being in my mind's eye, and I almost let a little of the sound inside of my slip to the surface. I can feel, for a brief instant, the heavy heat of her arm around me, the smell of his sweat as we swayed, taking a momentary break from the frantic leaping that we called dancing.

Home, now, I contemplate the view from my window. Here I cannot see the moon even though the view is facing the right direction. A building across the alley blocks my sight.

Mom says something casual, I nod and smile my acknowledgment. A pair of dogs in the next building screech and bark at each other. A siren wails.

I miss camp; all I have left is reality.