Brooklyn Welch ’25
On a small plane of space, the moon began to cry.
“I’ve become ugly,” she whispered.
A wandering knight, sleek white in dark hues, sat on a star to look at her. “How so?”
“I’m forgotten. I hardly ever see a soul look at me,” the moon sighs; “ugly things are forgotten.”
“I’m looking at you. I haven’t forgotten.”
“But you are one. One of billions.”
“But one is enough not to forget.”
The moon paused. “Remembering doesn’t matter now anyway. I’m old and cold and grey—I’ve lost parts of me to time—my divots have grown, and my light is dim.”
“How is different ugly?” The knight reached out a hand, feeling her chill. “You are just as stunning as you were centuries ago, even if you are different. Change isn’t ugly.”
“What is it, then?”
It was the first time the knight had been asked the question, but the answer was already on his tongue. “A goodbye.”
“But I don’t want to say goodbye. I loved the me before.”
“And you will learn to love the you after.”
The moon had stopped crying, and the silence that grew was filled by the stars’ breathing. They were young, but they knew what hope looked like.
“Do you really think they could love me again?”
The knight looked back home. He saw children playing in their yards, strangers at their bus stop and people working late. He saw a last breath that spurred a first, and the tears that followed. He saw the way it all came to a halt as the moon’s shadow moved over its sky.
He saw his son by the window.
“I don’t think they ever stopped.”