I can't remember how I died. I see the moon is in the trees, rising slowly out of the branches and I get up and walk towards it, through the woods and to the empty highway. On the other side I see my house with the livingroom lights on. There in the yard, sitting by the swing set, is my dog. I dare not call him.
I see the full moon peeking at me through the treetops, and I know that behind me the sun has set, because that's how it works, but I never remember the day. I also know the moon shouldn't be full every night. Not every night. Not like this. This isn't the real way the moon comes.
I go back to the highway, but I cannot cross it. I am not allowed to. Once I tried riding across on the back of a deer, but she didn't like the open space of the highway, and ran back into the woods.
The moon is slow. It goes way over the highway, moving with infinite slowness, high up over my head as I stand and watch from a safe distance on the shoulder. Yesterday I remembered tidal forces from a book I read in school. When the moon was overhead I stood very still, with my shoes off, and raised my arms toward her and wished she would pull me up and carry me across, because I don't think I weigh hardly anything.
And she did.