It was a dark morning when Bernie awoke. He awoke with the moon. This was an odd habit of his, yet he preferred to wake with the leaving of the moon rather than the arrival of the sun. Technically the two happened at the same time. The birth of the sun was characterized by the death of the moon; the death of the moon was defined by the birth of the sun. It was a fine line, it was, when that happened. Birth and death, arriving and leaving, nearly blended and Bernie was awake to see it. Not many people were. Most awoke far after this curious exchange had changed into plain old daylight. And most slept when the moon was high, and more still did not experience moonlight upon their faces. And it was so that Bernie considered himself an advocate of the moon. Moonchild, he called himself. Crazy, said everybody else.

And so Bernie was isolated as the weird old uncle who thought he was a child of the moon. Even though he was a grown up. Even though he was balding and weighed more than necessary.

Bernie had multitudes of nieces and nephews, all who loved him but considered him cracked. So Bernie lived in sorrow among stacks of tumbling relatives because none understood the grace of that night-morning shift.

One lazy afternoon with the family, a small niece, not yet five years, separated herself from the throng of screaming kids. She stepped carefully to her uncle, placed her hands on his large knees and said in light feathery words,

"Uncle Bernie, today I woke with the sun."