Tonight, the moon is thin and round like a communion wafer. I would put it on my tongue if I could reach it. Then I would think of all my sins and feel forgiven. This desire, I know, harks back to childhood, to catechism, to confession, to a dark pinewood box of a closet with a grated window that slid open and shut with the deftness of a guillotine, to the shadowy robed figure behind, who would listen, cough, ask a sly question or two, then say 10 hail marys, 10 our fathers; whatever sin you admitted to, the penance was oddly the same. Then it was onto your knees, staring at the skeletal remains of a man, bloody and limp on a cross, your savior. Afterward, you got a pasty wafer on your tongue, perhaps a taste of wine. That’s what it took to feel anew back then. But tonight the moon, so pure and crisp and all aglow, would somehow do much better. And the scrawl of tree branches, layered black against the brightness, does nothing to convince me otherwise. I would reach right through, and even if I broke off just a flake of light, just a taste of forgiveness, I know I would feel redeemed.