Opening

I couldn't see the blue moon last night, the second full moon of the month.

I knew it wouldn't be any different from other full moons, that blue moons that actually look blue are the result of particles and chemicals, not their second appearance in 30 or 31 days. But I know that this moon pulls always at my body and I'm a romantic for natural second chances. Not the kind that come by way of human forgiveness or because they are earned, but the accident of being allowed to try again.

Cycles, everywhere, cycles. The cycles right now of home are not the ones my body runs on. In a few days I return to the cycles of school which will not be the usual, but closer. I always follow the cycles of the moon, listen in to my body and the ocean swaying.

Second chances come and sometimes I miss them. Sometimes I miss myself, the way I was before. Before is a time we can't quite place, only that it is not now. There are befores that I do not miss and ones I yearn for.
Arms - mine when they arched in the curve of a small ballerina, when they wrapped around you in bed, before they were scarred.
Hands - that played the piano, the picked vegetables and shelled peas, traced all of the patterns of fences, beds.
Knees - bruised and scraped from running, banging against trees on the way up.
These are times as well as pieces of self, soft skin and a hard head that did things right with the rules in a way that was defiant in itself. Take me back to this before, before everything was frightening, when everything was bright.

Where is my second chance to try again in the now?