They never tell you that when you look through a telescope directly at the moon that someone else will be looking back. Yet there you were: I was looking right at you.

It was late summer, and I was out on my back porch after two weeks straight of rain. The humidity was high, the grass still damp. But finally I could look through my new telescope and see the first full moon up close.

It took me some time to focus the lens and get a clear view. Mom and dad had offered to help, but I’d insisted on doing it myself. I wanted to try and take a picture with my phone and show them what I could do, and so it was important that I do it alone. I knew all the parts of the moon’s rocky face, the Copernicus crater all cracked and pale, the Mare Frigoris like a bump on the forehead, the Oceanus Procellarum. You learn these sorts of things growing up, that’s what my dad had told me. I think he meant to comfort me because I was mostly alone.

The first time I looked through I remember thinking that there was a smudge on the lens, that somehow, though my telescope was new, a piece of dirt or a part of the packaging had gotten stuck to the glass. I rubbed it carefully with the cloth my dad had showed me how to use. But when I looked back through, I realized that no, there was a spot on the face of the moon that I had never heard or read of before, and that spot was you. You were looking through your own telescope, looking back, looking at me.

I remember distinctly how you waved first; the smile on your face, how warm and gentle it was. I say this now, remembering, because at the time I wouldn’t have had the words. Then it was mostly a thrill that I felt. You were a secret for me alone. I told no one about you.

I waved in return, unsure if you could see me, but your smile told me you had. A whole world expanded in front of me.

I can’t say how, but the signs we devised of hand signals and written symbols, mine on poster board, written in sharpie, yours toed into the moon’s dusty surface, seemed to emerge out of nowhere.

First I’d point at a tree and make a pluming shape with my arms that tapered down towards my waist and you understood. Similarly, you’d point at yourself and make a distinct set of movements by which I understood you meant your name. How quickly we grew close.

I remember how I would tell you everything, and you me, and how I would start to bring you tokens of my affection, a bouquet of flowers in autumn shades, a project that I’d made for the science fair, a birdhouse I’d constructed at school. Because no matter what would happen in class or on the playground, no matter what bruises I’d bring home, I knew I could always come back and live a whole new day just talking to you, sharing things about my world. You of course had less to share, but it didn’t matter, you seemed endlessly interested in what was going on here. I knew that someday I would visit you.

When the planes first came and the booms and the crashing, my dad said I couldn’t stay out as often. I tried to explain why the planes were coming, thinking I was old enough to understand, but I don’t think it made sense to either of us. You said it would be ok. I knew you were right. When it was over, I said, I would spend a whole month just talking to you. You smiled and signed me a ‘good idea.’

When dad left, I was sure it wouldn’t be for long. You were too. And it didn’t feel so long, even though mom told me at one point that it had been a year. She asked if I remembered hitting my head, but I didn’t. She smiled when I said this, but it wasn’t like she was smiling so much as her face was. I didn’t know what to say. When dad came home and he saw me, mom took him into the bedroom, and I could hear them speaking. She was crying. Then later he came out and gave me the same look that she had given. But I didn’t care. Things were back to normal.

I am older now and still live with mom, though dad had to go away again. I don’t remember when he’ll be back. You and I still talk every day like before, and today I showed you a bouquet I found in my room. The flowers are funny and crumbling, and they aren’t as pretty as others I remember, but I still like them. They were hanging upside down from the wall. I think I’ll show you my school project next. There’s a blue ribbon on it, though I don’t remember why. Or maybe I’ll show you the bird house on the tree by the window. I still think of the names of the places on the moon almost every day, you know.

Someday, I promise I’ll visit.