Griswold waited for me by under the pure clear light of the full milk moon. The porch glider swing, rescued from the jungle of the back yard, was his DYIM project. Now painted shades of lilac, buttercup yellow, and crimson rose, it still had it’s quirky squeak despite Griswold’s efforts.

Griswold bounced towards me, his usual splay-foot stomp; his tail acting as a metronome keeping the beat. Laughter chuff-chortled out his tufted ears, a broad grin breaking open his furry face.

You see, my upstairs neighbours are a family of monsters with a precocious, inquisitive and endlessly creative son. Mrs. G. still grumble-growled about our friendship, cooking her noxious stew, the odor redolent of old sneakers, rotten banana peels, and skunk cabbage, creeping down the stairs and slithering under my door. She wasn’t always happy her son’s full moon nights were spent with humans.

I greeted Griswold with a griswoldian interpretative dance. Bound to be mis-stepped, moon shadows playing out nonsense rhythms or inappropriate statements. Always guaranteed to cause Griswold to chuff-chortle harder and clap his paws in glee.

Griswold greeted me in whatever humanese he was learning from binge watching Netflix and Hulu. A deep bow, practically sweeping the ground, and a “Doth are howth you, fairest maidens?” Ah, probably a night of Game of Thrones?

Each full moon bathed the garden in it’s own special light. Tonight, the milk moon gleamed on the raised beds of vegetable plantings, and one for the weeds Griswold preferred to the tomatoes and zucchini.

Each season, each moon held the key to it’s unique games from catching fireflies to making snow creatures.

When he could, And – historic architect and part-time driver for Gumpsion and Son, Purveyors of Fine Fossimax – joined us. In fact, that’s how we met – when he was dropping off Mrs. G’s monthly supply. And Griswold, giggling and scheming, sent us off on our first date.

And often organized old deserted house spelunking and abandoned sewer or subway line treks. Our three circadian rhythms breathed to the same beat. Rarely did we explore our sunshiny neighbourhood; rather we were moonlit figures.

Light prisms in many ways. The silvery light of the full flower moon sidling into the wild tangle of the roses in the far back garden or the wolf moon glistening as night-diamonds on the bare branched trees. The glow in Griswold’s eyes as he played world war one flying ace, pirate or archeologist, visible even when clouds scudded the moon.

Flicker of candles in my apartment when And and I shared a post-midnight snack of ale and honey cakes. Blue light of my electronic device screens refracting off my glass of wine as I made my way in the night world as a free lance writer, editor, fact checker and researcher.

And the light of love that shines bright between we three comrades as we dance to invisible music under the pure clear full moon.

I haven’t participated in a writing prompt in quite some time – Michael’s mlmm Tale Weaver 171: light got me thinking of Melita, Griswold and And – characters who appeared over the years in Tale Weaver stories, on this and Phylor’s Blog. I wrote it out in long hand during one “session” drinking café mocha prior to my Friday Tai Chi class. Then entered it on the computer during laundry, television watching including hockey, and now as it draws closer to that moon-light midnight. On the May 29, it will be the full flower/milk moon; perhaps you will join my friends in a midnight dance of joy and lightness.

Photo by @ Lorraine