Last fall, I went with my mom to pick up my grandmother from her assisted living home in Gainesville, Florida, and drive her down to St. Augustine for the biennial family reunion. On the way, between talks of who was cooking dinner and stops at fruit stands, I asked my grandmother how she had met my grandfather. She told the story, including how she was on a date with Granddad’s brother when she met him, and I asked for more stories. Nanny recounted everything from near shipwrecks to brothers separated by war, and I realized that before I dedicated myself to fiction, I wanted to write about my own life. To record some of the moments and events that have built me, including some of the ones that tore me down before they allowed me to gain anything from them. The name of this memoir originated from my forever habit of finding and staring at the moon when I need a reminder that the world, and life, is bigger than the present moment.