The moon visits me.
“It’s a messed up world you live in,” she told me on one of her visits.
We talk about many things, from the universe beyond our earth to how we humans have succeeded in breeding hate and destruction to the point where we no longer have control of our pets.
The moon is beautiful.
The first time she visited, I was lying on my bed by the window. I could see the full moon that night. I had developed a habit of watching the moon every night before I slept. I would turn off the lights and lie on the bed staring at the moon through the bedside window for the longest time and reflecting on my day. The moon was usually the last thing I saw before sleeping. The nights that she was nowhere to be seen, I would just close my eyes and wait for sleep to come. This particular night, my window was open and the cool breeze drifted in. As I watched her glow, she began to grow bigger and bigger. I sat up and rubbed my eyes with my fists. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me. I opened my eyes to see the most beautiful being standing by my bed. Her hair was long and black and when she smiled at me, the white of her teeth shone bright in my dark room. I shivered in fear as I quickly drew my blanket above my face. I must be dreaming, I thought. I shut my eyes tight and heard her giggle.
“I’m not that scary, am I?” She asked in a voice that sounded like notes being played on a piano. It was like music to my ears. I was soon to realize that her melodious voice changed with her emotions. The notes were high and sweet and delightful when she was happy, but turned melancholic, like jazz blues or ethereal neo-soul when she was sad.
I slowly moved the blanket below my face and stared at her. She was wearing a white robe and the breeze blew her ankle-length hair in smooth tufts. Her face was brown and smooth, angular. She had the biggest eyes, long, pointed nose and lips as pink as the roses growing in my little backyard garden. My first instinct was to look out of my window, and sure enough, the moon was no longer hanging in the sky. I must have looked terrified because she giggled again and sat at the edge of my bed. I moved my legs close to my chest reflexively. “Y—you are the—the,” I could not say it.
“The moon? Yes.” She smiled. There was something preternatural about the way she spoke. She picked her words, yet they came out sounding majestic and full of power.
“But, I don’t understand?”
“I’ve come to pay you a visit. You seem to be quite interested in me. I watch you watch me night after night.”
“I do enjoy watching you change.” I was becoming more comfortable. It was as if she sensed my initial alarm, and changed the aura around me to one of peace and calm.
“Yes, it’s flattering.”
“But,” I was confused again, “Won’t people notice that you’re missing? And when you grew bigger, didn’t anyone else see that?”
She chuckled, “Not many people watch me as intently as you do Sharon. So, not many people will notice my absence. The ones who do will be bereft of an explanation. It will quickly be tucked away into the extraordinary phenomena folder.”
After that first night, she became a regular visitor, and I thoroughly enjoyed her visits. She taught me a lot about the great beyond and the vastness of space and all the strange and scary experiences associated with the universe outside my tiny world. She told about how areas in space would sometimes light up with supernova events and implosions and explosions of matter and gases. She told me about black holes and worm holes and singularity and the dimensions which lay beyond event horizons. It was fascinating but scary to hear these things. However, she constantly spoke of space with a deep sense of reverence, telling me that none of it was scary, but exciting, pure. She never failed to let me know that my world was just a speck compared to the rest of the universe, and that our galaxy was only one of very many.
The conversations I anticipated the most were those that had to do with earth. One night, it was raining heavily outside, and I asked her what she thought about earth.
“I think it is a beautiful pearl. Small, but exquisite nonetheless,” She responded.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s true, Sharon. They have mutilated the earth and themselves. It’s a messed up world you now live in. It wasn’t always like this.” She sounded like a slow, sad song. “An altered dawn is fledgling, and that’s good to observe. Things may get better. Not soon, but soon. The neophyte must grow.”
“What do you mean?”
“A new breed of mankind is emerging, Sharon.” She smiled her brilliant smile. “Humans are being born, who understand that different does not necessarily mean negative. Humans are being raised, who tolerate one another in love, who cooperate instead of nastily compete, who protect and preserve the earth, who care, period.
You see, from where I’m positioned, up, up in my zone, I can see so much. I have watched over millennia how hate, greed, mistrust, disappointment, egomania and other destructive elements have caked the human heart. Like tar. The heart is now completely covered and it is hard and dry. The damage will not easily be removed. It started small, but it was bred. It was your pet. You fed it constantly instead of fighting it. It has become a monster. It is now so big that it cannot be controlled. The pet is now in control of its master. It was sickening to watch the transformation, but I am hopeful.”
I bowed my head in shame. She was right. “There is hope,” I repeated.
She placed her palm over mine, and our fingers entwined. Her palm was cold and dry, but very smooth to the touch. “Yes,” She smiled. “For some, like you, it’s not so much negativity as it is numbness. Your heart has been numbed to the extent that nothing moves you anymore. People are killed and there is no empathy. You lost your family in that auto crash. Your husband and your two sons died on an icy road, and you ceased to feel. So now, you watch the news and you simply shrug your shoulders and move on as if the genocides, the plane crashes, the collapsing buildings, the flooding, the earthquakes, the election violence, the mass retrenchment, the crashing stock market, the diseases, and everything else plaguing earth means nothing. In a sense they mean nothing to you don’t they?”
I nodded. “I don’t care. I don’t even care if I’m affected anymore. I just go through the day doing what I think I should be doing. I should be sad, seeing people die of Ebola in Africa, or the young wasting their lives on drugs in the States, I should feel something, but I don’t.”
“You’re not alone.” She whispered. It sounded like wind-blown leaves. “There are many like you. So many you won’t believe it. Many humans are living statues. No soul. No heart. Their lives are buried under the weight of the earth itself. It wasn’t always like this.”
“But, there is hope,” I reminded her.
She smiled and embraced me. “There is, Sharon; there is. Maybe not in your lifetime, but certainly in mine.”
“But, that is a long time. Don’t you have an infinite lifetime?”
“Not soon, but soon. Don’t worry, the neophyte will grow,” was her cool response.
She left, and I slept.
The next night she did not show up in the sky. She did not show up in my bedroom either. I knew she would return before long, and we would resume our enlightening conversation. I couldn’t wait for her next visit.
The moon visits me, and different does not always mean negative.