The Silver Thread Above

When I was seven, my grandfather told me that the moon was a silver coin tossed into the dark by someone who had forgotten to catch it. I spent many nights standing on our back porch in Enugu, neck craned, waiting for it to fall. I imagined it landing in the tall grass, glowing softly, waiting for me to find it. As I grew older, I realized the moon never falls; it only watches. It sits above the noise of our streets, the tangled wires, and the heavy stone of our buildings, indifferent to the rush of our lives below. We spend our days looking at the ground, measuring our steps, and worrying about the next hour. We forget that there is a vast, silent geometry happening far above our heads. Do we ever stop to wonder if the sky is waiting for us to look up, or if it is simply keeping its own steady time regardless of our gaze?

Adriano Mor has captured this quiet celestial patience in his image titled On That Cold Wednesday Night. It reminds me that even in the middle of a crowded city, there is a silver thread connecting us to something much older than the concrete. Does the night feel smaller to you when you find the moon?