When the car passed in the dark street, my first thought was, “What sort of story will that driver tell about us later today?” My husband, son, and I trundled through the dark and cold, way-before-dawn, to view the eclipse of the Blue Blood Moon. Our neighborhood is filled with street lights, but within a few blocks is an empty field that fronts the runway of the municipal airport. I expected to see others like us, willing to sacrifice sleep for a chance to see an astronomical event that last occurred over 150 years ago. I never considered that some people might be going to work, their morning routine, nor did I think of how they would react to pedestrians along their usually empty roads. With my point of view split from experiencing events above me to observing someone else watching me, I realized I was making a mental hall of mirrors. I was imagining the story a driver was making up about me, and asking whether the observer wondered what sort of story I was fashioning about her.
The cold in my bones and beauty of the moon stopped me from exploring how far I could expand my hall of mirrors. I remember the sensation, however, and plan to add it to a future writing project. If I can push the point of view out far enough, perhaps I can reach the moon that pulled me from my warm bed.