My Mother, the Moon

In place of the moon is a husk. It haunts me — pale crater eyes shadow my every step. 

Daylight or night, ever-present, no matter if I’m beneath a tree, roof, or six feet underground. It is an ageless thing, hanging in the deep expanse of space. She never waxes or wanes; forever a full or bloodied moon. 

I stare, waiting for an eclipse, waiting for it to blind me as it shines anew. Something — anything — to show for the passing of time. Instead, as I grow and mature, she does not. Will not. For she does not comprehend the nature of fading in and out with the times. 

I can’t bear to call her magical. Yes, she is ancient; yes, she is worshipped; yet she is stuck in her ways. So far out of reach, shooting down moonbeams to crush my telescope.

Her world is so lonely, cold, barren. All she does is watch and lurk. Once beautiful, now riddled with white cataracts and ashen skin.

She believes herself heavenly up where she sits, yet I watch her drift further and further from Earth, and I wonder where else is there to go if you think you are better than the sun?

Drift closer to me. Wake up.