Word Count: 292
She was awakened by the soft tongue of the moon. Reluctant at first to let go of her dream, she whimpered and burrowed deeper into the pillows, trying to hide from the light. But the moon is a patient, relentless lover and spiraled the room, finding an angle to catch her, nudge her awake.
She was born of the night, her first vision the blurry moonface of her mother, her father’s wild corona of hair. This last frightened her and she cried until comforted by the rose nipple of mother’s milk. The song of spring peepers were lullabies. The stars the mobile she reached for, stretching chubby pink fingers out to capture them for her own.
He came into her life like a rainstorm in the arid plains of a dry Texas summer. He gave her what she hadn’t known she was missing. Thus given, it became all. His hair was dark night, his eyes, the sparkle of stars. She felt he belonged in her life.
But the night can be thief, and its cloak a disguise that could easily melt with daylight. She gave him her jewels, bought him things like shoes of Italian leather, jackets of soft warm feathers, and a canary that didn’t know how to sing. These things he took with him when through the window of dawn he slipped out.
Now she hides from the sun under quilts she embroidered while waiting for him to return. She is patient and silent, loving and pale. She tells herself one thing but believes in her heart for another and sits through the nights with a smile on her face and a blue ribbon in her white hair so he can find her by the loving light of the moon.
