The sky was a shimmering periwinkle. I watched as tears fell from the blue, soft and bright as molten diamonds.
“The moon is crying,” my mother said. She gathered my basket of seashells in her arms and set off across the sand.
“Why does the moon cry?” I asked.
Those same tears fell each night but I’d always thought them beautiful, not sad.
“The moon has always loved the sun, and yet they will never share the same sky. She holds onto whatever light he might spare her when his burning is done, but she is otherwise alone.”
“She’s not alone – she has the stars!”
My mother smiled. “And there are so many stars in the sky, are there not? And we, the people, adore her, do we not? Our poetry for the night sky is endless.”
I looked to the night sky and for the first time I did not marvel at the moon’s beauty. I did not wonder at her mysteriousness, or envy her as the queen of the night. I pitied the moon, and I pitied her well.
I hugged the seashells to my chest and searched the sky for the brightest star. When I found him I made a wish. I wished that, one day, the moon and the sun would finally share the same sky.
(Image courtesy of Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo)