The Moon

I’m not entirely sure how this didn’t end up here before.


Fredrick Lawrence Knowles once said: “The night walked down the sky with the moon in her hand”.

Had she heard it, or read it, or knew about it, she’d say she wished to be the night. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the night. She was just a girl.

A blanket on the grass, in the garden, set as far away from the house lights as possible, not under the trees, but under the sky. The girl was lying on top, her hands under her head, staring up. She was there since sunset, because shortly afterwards, it was in its biggest, brightest state, rising, round and in a shade of orange, from behind the buildings, over the trees and up into the sky.

It was, as always, the brightest thing in the dark sky. Brighter and bigger than the stars. Always changing. Different every night, but still the same. It was always there, waiting for her. And she was always waiting for it. She would be outside, on the ground, staring up, sometimes hours at a time, sometimes only minutes if she had to go. Sometimes she would whisper, talking to it. Not at it, to it. Telling things she told no one else. Sometimes she just lay there, saying nothing, sad, because she couldn’t reach it, couldn’t touch it. It never talked back to her. It didn’t even know she was there.

In the winter, in the pouring rain, she ventured outside, if only for a minute, to try and find it through the blackness of the clouds. It was nothing but a faint light, she barely found it, but once she did, she didn’t want to walk away. Didn’t want to go back inside. She felt alone, abandoned, without it shining down on her, without seeing it.

The following nights she spent in bed, sick. The rain was still pouring, the clouds still black, and from her window, she couldn’t see it, not even the telltale of a brighter cloud that would announce its presence somewhere in the sky. It poured, unstopping, the entire night, and the following nights as well, as she looked out the window and couldn’t find it. The sky was weeping for her. It was weeping with her.

W. Clement Stone once said: “Aim for the moon. If you miss, you may hit a star.” She didn’t aim for the moon; she reached for it, and couldn’t get it. And the stars were just as far away, although they were of no interest to her, anyway.

It was all back to normal after a while. The rain stopped, the wind carried the clouds away. But she was different, changed but still the same. She knew now. Even ‘though she went outside every evening, just like she used to. Even while she was staring up at it as she always did. She knew, and so she hardly talked to it anymore, just stared, sad.

She knew, because she saw it with her own eyes. It was always in its biggest and brightest right after sunset, when traces of the sun still painted the sky, when the sun’s light reflected in its most beautiful shade. It was big, bright and in that beautiful shade only because of the sun. And that’s how she knew. It was the sun it was waiting for every evening, for those brief moments of sharing the sky, it wasn’t her. It was the sun it tried to stay close to, early in the morning, when sometimes she could still see it in the sky, although it was already bright blue and the sun was making its way up the horizon. It wasn’t her. It had never been her. And now she knew.

She wanted the moon, but the moon was out of her reach, and forever belonged to the sun.


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