Once there was a little girl who stood on tiptoes on top of her mattress, with forearms anchored to a windowsill. The moon shown full that night and competed with city street lights. Though she stretched her neck closer to her windowpane, she couldn’t see all she wanted to see. Her father stood next to her as they pointed out imaginary shapes, made by shadows. It was one of the only true moments she had of that intimate memory with her father. But, not the only memory of moons and sunsets.
Nights like that one, never happened again. However, the moon continued to rise and fall beyond the mystery of a place the girl did not know. Her eyes were watchful as each day neared the cycle of another full moon. She climbed the stairs to her bedroom waiting to capture the last red glow of the sun settling secretly behind tall city buildings. In anticipation of the full waxing moon’s appearance, the girl watched as the world transformed from light to dark. Then, the magic began all over again.
The love of sunsets wouldn’t be realized until much later in the girl’s life. Many things, would not be fully seen, or understood until later in life. The moon was the one thing she could see, no matter where she was, no matter what or who she was with. No buildings obscure her view of wonderment and curiosity.
Years later, a women pours a glass of wine, slips on her yellow shoes, and heads for the neighborhood pier. The sky had begun to transition from blue to golds, deep reds, and violets. Clouds, torn in bits of white found their place sleeping above a reflective creek. Mirror images of the sun setting engulfed the world surrounding the old worn pier. The woman lifted herself with a skip of her foot on top of the old community picnic table, barely stable enough to withstand her weight. But somehow, the table manages not to fail the single audience’s eagerness for the draw of the curtain.
Slowly, the curtain rose as the spectacle began. The sky held a reddening globe, slowly it started melting behind a tree burdened landscape; a red horizon. One day ending, and another beginning. The sun can’t do without the moon, nor can the moon do without the sun.
They are one yet, separate.
The river quiets, a heron glides past effortlessly, as the red wine flowed down her hungry throat. A warm sense of connection to something larger than herself washed over her, just as it did when she was a child. The woman’s skin responds, her face eases its worry, her shoulders drop, the river takes its snapshot.
Writing genres: Nonfiction, Autobiographical, poetry: I have taken classes with Valley in Richmond, VA. Now, living in Fredericksburg, VA I continue to stay inspired through this forum and currently taking a break from social media.