When I was 7 years old I saw the most amazing moon.

The first time I heard on the news about there being a super moon, I got so excited because I thought maybe I would finally see that moon that I saw when I was 7 years old.

But it didn’t even come close.

If that’s a super moon, I have no word for what my moon was.

I was caravanning with my parents in Devon (or maybe it was Dorset) when I had to be removed from an evening disco by my mum. We waited five or ten minutes in the summer night and while I remember nothing else about that holiday, I remember that moon.

Against the horizon, it looked immeasurable. Immense. It filled the night sky and my vision. I felt like if I just continued walking towards it, I’d be able to step onto its surface. It looked tangible. Intimidating could be another word for it but it would be an injustice. I wasn’t intimidated, I was in awe.

My mum doesn’t remember my moon.

Childlike hyperbole. Imagination in overdrive. Exaggeration brought on by time.

All valid explanations. But I reject them all. I know what I saw. And what I saw was beautiful.

There’s a phenomenon called the Moon Illusion. No one can quite explain it but it’s the closest thing I can find to explain what I saw. It’s all about perspective.

But part of me doesn’t want to find an explanation. Or even confirmation.

Part of me likes the fact that the moon and I had that ethereal moment back when I was 7 years old.

Now whenever I see the full moon in the sky, I treasure that memory. I treasure how I saw her like many others never will, even if it was through a child’s eyes. Even if it was just an illusion.

I was 7 years old and I saw the moon.

And she was amazing.