The Moon Follows

Lately, I’ve been spending extra time with the night sky—partly because the crescent moon and planetary parade have been gorgeous and partly because my dog Lucy thinks 2 a.m. is adventure hour. So, there I was, staring up at the night sky (again), and there she was—the moon, staring right back. And I started thinking about how it’s always just there—watching, glowing, following.

There’s something comforting about that, isn’t there? In a world that never stops shifting—where trends fade, plans change, and life moves faster than we sometimes want—the moon stays the same. A quiet, steady presence. A constant in the chaos.

This poem is a nostalgic, quirky take on everyday life, late-night thoughts, and the little moments we don’t always notice—like whether my kid will even see the moon or just keep staring at a screen. The moon sees it all. Says nothing. Just keeps shining, like a quiet witness to all of life’s tiny absurdities.

What follows are my moonlit musing on life’s small, silly, and suspiciously profound moments—because if the moon can keep glowing through it all, so can we.

When I was little,

I thought the moon followed me home.

Hung just outside the car window,

peeking through tree branches,

floating over highways,

never too far behind.

The moon knows things.

Watches me spill coffee down my shirt at 7 a.m.,

nods like it saw that coming.

Sees me stare at the ceiling at 2:36 a.m.,

debating if I missed my true calling—

Should I have been an archaeologist?

A beekeeper?

Or at least someone who knows how to fold a fitted sheet?

The moon saw me set my alarm for 6 a.m.,

watched me hit snooze five times,

then scroll my phone for thirty minutes

like that wasn’t the plan all along.

The moon saw me aggressively whisper “thank you”

to the self-checkout machine,

because I refuse to be rude to robots.

(It’s only a matter of time, anyway.)

The moon saw me whisper “oops” to myself

when I tripped over absolutely nothing.

Saw me open my laptop with great intention,

then immediately check the weather,

like I don’t already know what season it is.

The moon has witnessed it all—

every text I typed and deleted,

every awkward wave when I thought someone was waving at me,

every time I sang the wrong lyrics to a song

and kept right on singing.

The moon watches me rehearse arguments in the shower,

perfectly phrased comebacks

for conversations that no longer need me.

It sees me laugh too loud in the car,

then immediately wonder if I’m actually funny

or just bad at silence.

And now I wonder—

when my daughter stares out the car window,

will she think the moon follows her too?

Or will she be too busy looking down

at a tiny, glowing screen,

learning from a machine

that already knows where she’s going?

The moon sees it all.

Says nothing.

Just keeps shining,

like a friend who knows too much,

but lets you pretend otherwise.