For all the advances of modern technology, the moon is one of the few things my camera cannot capture. On the surface, it is a small problem. With my phone, I curate a library, listen to a concerto, and call my favorite cousin. All of the purposes that I pride it for are functioning. There is nothing missing from it; a portrait of the moon doesn’t have an empty spot in my camera roll, though blurry spot-light imitations fill up rows of storage.

But what is the importance of taking a picture of the moon in the first place? Everything in my film can be sorted into a few major categories: family, friends, animals, and food. All things that make me happy at a moment’s glance. Yet when I lift my head up to take a deep breath of air, as I do exiting the house every cold morning and crisp night, the moon doesn’t alight my senses with joy. It brings no smile to my face as its rays descend and wane by the burnt-orange streetlights. It has no practical value. It's “that distant relative” at a family gathering, the one who no one knew or particularly asked after. Yet, this moon is a loved one.

I exhale for the first time of what might be hours, and the moon greets me back with a breeze through the cypress. We share a moment at the top of the stairs, when absolute silence is not necessary but quiet is appreciated. There’s chattering all around us, but our glances say enough. During our encounter, a steady reassurance fills me. Who knows me better than the moon? Moonlight reaches me even when my blinds are drawn, even if I sleep with the sun. The moon is just beyond the draperies of dawn during daylight, but a sliver of it appears still–peeking, like a child. Through a frosted window in Beijing, I whispered to the moon–the only thing that didn’t frighten me after sunset; it stayed even when an inky black swallowed the stars and malevolent storms ripped tiles off the roof. 

Tonight, I’m on the coast of California, at a school atop a hill. It’s a fairytale I never thought I’d indulge in–the urban ambition runs strong through my veins on too many accounts: Confucian values, my family’s work ethic, and the city’s non-stop motion. Even minutes before, I worked overtime, studying since the moment I woke up. I ponder, incredulously, how I got to this point; the result of too many actions and motives inside me like a ball of yarn I’d never fully undo–a mathematical formula I’d never name all the factors of. Yet, the moon understands why I came here, why I took the first exhale, and why we traded a breath after. The moon realizes why I leave some words unsaid, some things undiscovered. The moon knows me better than I, and I’m grateful for it.

I stretch to take a picture, for the moon is a loved one, no matter how far away. I have family on the other side of the globe; when would distance ever be a problem for me? The moon is my oldest family. On my phone, the yellow box highlights a hazy white circle–completely at odds with the waxing quarter projected on the sky. I dim the camera until everything fades to monochrome. The moon remains glowing. No detail or definition, no craters and plateaus captured on my screen. I tap on another spot; the sky is blue again, but the moon returns brighter now. Finally, I lower my phone. This is a dance we’ve gone through all too many times. No flattery nor urging can change it. Swapped cameras, better phones, some special app, or a blacked-out room, nothing can truly capture the moon. 

I put my phone down, always the first to sway. The moon cannot be photographed unless I lose all its intricacies, so I give up and leave it for another day. More pictures of white dots sit in my photo app, but I’ll delete it later. For now, I raise my head up again. All filters removed from my eyes, I drink in its full glory. A toast, to the moon–the splendor that enshrines a thousand nights in my memory.