The energy of a full moon doesn’t simply dissipate the very next day. Some of it lingers, and when the moon rises that next night, it looks just as full, and exerts almost as much influence. Such was the status of the evening of our Friendsgiving festivities this year. The day had been beautifully sunny, and our reservation at 75 Chestnut wasn’t until 8 PM, so we took our time chilling at the condo before starting a leisurely trek on foot to Beacon Hill.
It was already dark as we passed through Copley Square, and the moon hung between buildings where I once worked. The past peeked back at us – the building formerly known as the John Hancock Tower is the office where Kira and I first met a quarter of a century ago. We ate lunch on the steps of this church when spring was in the air. On this night, a warm one for November, I felt safe precisely between the past and the future.
We reached the edge of the Boston Public Garden, and Kira hesitated, but I walked right in – it was early enough that others were still walking the paths. In many ways, this space is more magical at night, especially the night after a full moon.
It hadn’t been cold or windy enough to remove the wardrobe of the trees; cloaked as they were, the trees acted like a maze in the dark, meandering beside the walkways, waving in the slightest breeze, tricking us into thinking there was something constant about this world.
We traveled along the Arlington Street side, and emerged near Beacon Hill, walking toward the river and entering Chestnut Street from a place I’d never been before. It felt like we had gone very far back in time, aside from the cars lining the cobblestone streets. It was quiet here, eerily so, and somewhere above us but out of the sight the moon was reflecting sunlight. 75 Chestnut appeared and welcomed us in for a cozy Friendsgiving dinner. It was my first time there, and it was delicious: a neighborhood joint with amazing food and friendly staff, ideal for a warm and intimate, if lively, scene. Before the coziness could became cramped, we finished our meal and walked back into the night, taking the more crowded way through Beacon Hill before rejoining the Public Garden from the other end.
This angel had seen us in and out of the Garden, and we crossed Arlington onto Commonwealth, where we took the middle mall walkway, covered by trees and enchantingly dark between rows of brownstones. History whispered to us, our own, and the history of Boston for centuries before us. The past was a guide, but we were forging a new way, having never taken this route at this tie of the year. Usually we are beneath the Commonwealth trees in summer, or after they are lit for the holidays. On this dark night, even with the not-quite-full moon glowing between the branches and buildings, the darkness enveloped us, but, linking arms, we made our own light, and it carried us safely back to the condo.
