I found a postcard under the cushion and decided, without any better reason than the way the light fell, to write to the moon.

I found a postcard under the cushion and decided, without any better reason than the way the light fell, to write to the moon. It was one of those postcards with a photograph of a beach that had never been near the sea I knew, and the back was still blank except for the date space. I sat at the little table with my pen and wrote as if the moon were a friend who had forgotten to call.

Dear Moon,

Some people think you are a stone in the sky. I think you are a patient thing who watches gardens and laundry and the way people put their coats on. Tonight I am not sure if I am writing to you or to myself, but I am writing anyway.

The room is quiet except for the kettle, and the cat has decided my slippers are a very interesting place to sleep. There is a smell of oranges in the air and the lamp makes the wallpaper look as if it has been woven from shadows. If you are listening, let me know whether you have ever been the same colour as a bicycle seat in a puddle.

Love, Janet

I did not mail the postcard. I left it on the table and went to bed, and in the morning the light was a different shape and the postcard was still there, carrying the small, ridiculous proof that I could be both serious and silly in the same afternoon.