We celebrated, the four of us, with Moon Food—

ball shaped white rice mochi, slightly sweet and

round crackers with white cheese spread. We toasted

with white wine and one woman read a moon poem.

We ate salmon spread on black rice crackers, confetti

 

salad with calamata olives, and an unremarkable looking

white rice dish, which I declined. We chatted at the kitchen

table until the prescribed time and together we filed outside

to witness the moonrise. I had my doubts we’d see anything,

as there had been thunder and lightning and scattered

 

showers all day. Outside, in the chilly air, the clouds

hung low over the rose garden. Our hostess danced to the

voices of chanting women playing on her phone. Some joined

in while others scanned the sky, one woman making a moon sign

with index finger and thumb. Without a sighting, we began

 

to fatigue—tiring further, one woman dropped to the ground,

two more followed, lying down on the grass, one expounding

on the virtues of soaking up earth energy to heal our bodies.

Finally, we gave up on the moon altogether and returned

to the house, pulling oracle cards to predict our future.