Late last night I went down to the beach, called by a fat, full moon. We didn't talk for long, and I declined its offer to sit beside it in the sky.
"It's too far," I said.
"Too far?" said the moon indignantly. "I smile on your sea, your face, light the way for you, my rhythms are yours...and you can't be bothered to come and visit me!"
I explained the difficulties of gravity, the light years between us, and my fear of heights.
"No excuse," it snapped. "I'm leaving you if you keep treating me like this."
I stood on the edge of the sea, wondering if I could walk the moon's path. Witches do. It might take me directly to it. After all, it was right: when an old friend is always there for you, no matter what, it's easy to take them for granted. If they ask you to do something, it ought to be done. I didn't blame the moon for being cross. How often had it shown me the way, shone in the darkest corners, soothed my own eratic tides, reminded me of my place in the universe?
"I really can't come tonight. It's impossible," I said sadly. "I just came to say thank you."