I’ve effectively become a nocturnal creature, right up there with the owl and the opossum, but–I think–better looking. Lately my daytime activities have been limited to waking up in the afternoon, drinking a cup of coffee, and reading a book while sunbathing in my parents’ backyard in my underwear, all the while watching the sun go down along with my standards.

This evening I stepped on the scale, which is something they tell you never to do when you first start a diet, but that didn’t stop me from doing it, thinking, You’re not the boss of me. Of course, there’s a reason they tell you not to do that because one day you’ve lost four pounds, and the next day, even after starving yourself and immediately taking a good shit, you’ve gained it all back.

I remember taking a philosophy class in college, and there was this story about a ship that was in constant need of repair. One day one board was replaced, and the next day another, and then before long, none of the original wood was there anymore. The question was–is it the same ship, or is it a different one? Fifteen years later, I’m not sure I have an answer, but I think about the question a lot whenever I’m on a diet. Like, there goes three pounds of me–am I still the same person?

I spent several hours this evening reading a book called Closing Time, which just came out today and was written by my friend and local author Anita Paddock. It’s about a double murder that took place in Van Buren in 1980 and the family that survived the ordeal. I was riveted, especially since the murders happened in my hometown, in a shopping center I’ve been to or driven by a hundred times.

Not to make everything about me, but I learned tonight that the murders also happened three days before I was born. The funerals of the victims were actually on my birthday. So the entire time I was reading tonight, imaging the horrific experiences of the victims, their family, and the city, I was also imaging the (I’m assuming) joyful experiences of my parents and my family, how dramatically different a day they were having. Things like this always strike me–the way one life can be falling apart at the same time another is coming together.

In the middle of my reading the book, my Dad asked me to come into the kitchen “to look at something.” Having overheard part of a conversation he was having with Mom, I knew it had to do with his body. This sort of thing is pretty common in our family, like, Look at this rash, or, Smell my armpits, or, Do you think this ingrown toenail is infected? It’s something I’ve gotten used to, especially after seeing my dad and aunt use an electric sander (the kind you buy at the hardware store) to remove the calluses from each other’s feet more times than I can count. Just another Sunday afternoon.

Usually I’m up for whatever’s asked of me. Need me to remove a splinter? I’m a witch with a needle. Need me to peel the skin off your sunburned back? Sure thing, I could use more for my collection. Need me to pop a zit or boil you can’t quite reach it? Absolutely! Even better if splashes a little or smells like cheese–we’ll put it on YouTube. Just let me get my goggles.

But when I got to the kitchen tonight, Dad opened his mouth wide and showed me one of his teeth, a molar. He said a while back he was chewing on an M&M and something happened, meaning his tooth freaking split open the way a piece of firewood does when it’s hit with an ax. And then he used his tongue to wiggle the broken tooth around, playing with it like a kid that’s just discovered his pecker, kind of proud of himself.

“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” I said.

And then–AND THEN–he asked me to pull it.

“Just get the tweezers.”

“Hell, why don’t I get the needle-nose pliers out of my toolbox?”

“If you think that would work better.”

He was serious. For a moment, I actually considered it. I had this short vision of me reaching into my dad’s mouth with a monkey wrench, maybe propping my foot against his stomach for leverage, and then counting to three. Laying the tooth in his arms like a doctor who’s just delivered a newborn baby to its mother, the whole time Mom complaining about the blood on the carpet.

“I’m sorry, if it were a zit, I’d say yes. But I’m not going to pull your tooth. Tie a string around it and slam the door. I draw the line at anything having to do with an orifice.”

My mom kept saying he should see a dentist, but Dad said, “Marcus, just get me the tweezers.” Fine. Honor you father and mother. So I went to the bathroom, grabbed a pair of pink tweezers and the alcohol, and came back to the kitchen and cleaned them.

“You don’t have to clean them,” Dad said.

Oh, of course not. I guess if you haven’t been to the dentist in ten years, you’re probably not too concerned about bacteria. So I handed the man the tweezers and walked away, washing my hands of the matter like Pilate did with our lord and savior. Five minutes later, there was a third of a tooth on the kitchen table–where we eat for god’s sakes. I mean, what’s on the table goes in your mouth, not what’s in your mouth goes on the table.

Tonight after The Great Tweezer Tooth Extraction and after I finished reading Closing Time, I went for a jog. Here’s what I love about running after midnight, what I love about being a nocturnal creature–it’s cool, it’s quiet, and it’s usually just me and the moon, something I often take for granted. You know how it is, you’ve seen it before. But having been out the last few nights in a row, I’ve watched the moon progress from being full to less full. Every night, a little part of it disappears. It’s like it’s on a diet too.

I have a few different routes when I walk and jog, but tonight I went to the track and ran laps. The repetition usually bores me, but at night it encourages me to look at the sky. Huffing air, moaning more and more with each lap, I thought, The moon’s waning, and I’m whining. Plus, I kept noticing that every couple of laps, the moon would move. I’d look up at the spot it was the last time I saw it, and it wouldn’t be where I’d left it. (I’ve had this same experience with my keys.)

So I kept thinking that nothing is ever where we leave it. Of course, you can put your keys on the kitchen counter, and they’ll be there tomorrow, but they won’t be at the same place in the universe as they were the day before. In truth, like you, they will have traveled remarkable distances. Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Personally, I know that I often get hung up on things not changing. I want my weight to be consistent, my health to stay the same, my keys to always be on the counter. But if I could catch even a glimpse of a universe–just one universe–moving, I’d realize that’s impossible. Nothing stays the same for even a moment. Weight comes on and goes off like the phases of the moon. Teeth rot just like wooden ships do. And even on days when people mourn the death of those lost in the most tragic of circumstances, a baby takes his first breath, a mother smiles, and the moon still rises somewhere in the sky.