The moon goes into shadow more often these days; it's time, observation.  But I only remember two.  Both of them happened in Louisiana, both on the banks of the Mississippi. 

It was a long time before my parents actually divorced.  I was already married to Craig, my then-husband.   One night my mother called me on the phone and said that she was leaving home.   Just like that.  She said she had been thinking about it for some time.

Since the moon, since the alligators.  Since the eclipse.  Since the hand under the hot tee shirt.

She said that she was no longer in love with daddy.  She said lots of things while I thought telephone thoughts. 

How long had she known HE wasn't in love with HER?

Then mom saw a sign that said ALLIGATOR FARM AND VOODOO MAGICK SHOP AHEAD.  Oh, Daddy--she called him "daddy" even though there was just the me--let's stop.  I could almost see the sorrow on her face, the moon's own shadow on herself.