“the moon ‘n me: a love story” (fiction/snippet)

When I was little, I would wish upon the moon. The stars were for the masses, the moon was for me.

I’ve always felt oddly connected to the moon. I took the term “the man in the moon” literally, and would talk to her like she really were a warm, smiling entity in the sky that could be shining its light for anyone else on the planet, but I knew it was really shining just for me.

I don’t know if it was dreams, or imagination, or reality, but the visions that dance in my head feel so real, I can’t believe they are just echoes of some long forgotten wish.

I have walked with the moon at night and held hands with its beam in my meanderings. She has kept me company for so many hours, as I wandered the grassy plains and explored the safe tufts of woods that sprouted here and there.

She had her different moods, and she would whisper of them while we traversed. She told me about each phase of her mood, how it affected her, what it meant. And I didn’t know then, but she was teaching me important themes about life that I would start to notice over time, and with some experience.

The moon was always there for me. Even on her darkest days, when she was quiet, and almost invisible, I could still make out her outline at certain times at night, if I stayed up and looked hard enough. I still talked to her, but quietly, respecting her time of need for darkness. She didn’t whisper back, but I could still feel her gratefulness at being acknowledged, even though she could not respond the way she usually would. Always a comfort, no matter the night I might need her.

When my family moved, she followed me to the coast. And still, there were nights I found myself late at night, prowling the edge of the vast ocean, as if I could fling myself into it and just escape to the other side. There were too many city lights, but that was okay because all I was looking for was her light.

She always greeted me with a winky glint upon first sight. And then her gaze would settle on me like a cape settling around my shoulders, and she’d stretch her beam out to me, a perfect silvery trail that would keep me company wherever I would go. Her trail was silver here on the water, sometimes white, or a bit blue or green, depending on the mood of the ocean.

A long time ago, in an almost forgotten faraway land, her arm used to stretch out to me, painting highlights on yellow stalks of grain that quivered with delight in her light. Sometimes the grain was long and lazy, waves of it gently undulating around and through me as if I were an apparition, or made of the same material as the moons outstretched beams. Other times, the grain was short and spiky, whipping my ankles violently, no waves, just branches of helpless stalks, heads bent, being flung around at the mercy of the wind and its often quiet, but sometimes screaming outbursts.

No matter where I am in the world, no matter what the day has been like, every night, no matter the weather, I search for my friend in the sky. I take note of the stars and their positions. I notice the clouds and their cover. I listen to, and feel the wind.

I am in love with the sky in all of its moods.

But the moon, the moon is in love with me, too.