The moon rises late and small tonight. Lying in bed with you, in a dark grown calm, bodies satisfied, the turbulence of souls quieted like the hush which comes upon the tropical pond at the lion’s approach, I find it difficult to remember what it was that bound us once. We need so much, yet understand so little of the important things, like love and family, that we wrap them in a kind of honor, and call them mysteries, then drag our feet through them as if they were the remnants of a nearly forgotten religion of which only the rituals remain. So now, in darkness, we bless the cup and dip the bread, taking pleasure in the motion, its antiquity alone reassuring. I wake up later, in the night, and wonder why you are beside me. When understanding fails, memory is delinquent. A bit of moon slips into view; for some forgotten reason, reassuring. The moon and you, this satisfaction, remind me of something which now I cannot grasp. I grope awhile in darkness, then pull the blankets over us; we sleep the sleep of ignorance. In our dreams we peer into the cup, question the bread, wondering.