Being Seen

“True story,” is how she starts every story before launching into the most implausible tale. She claimed the moon was stalking her last night, so she waited until it was close enough to grab. Once she got ahold of it, she shrank it to marble size.

I chuckled—until she reached into her pocket and pulled out the tiny luminous orb.

Now I’m speechless.

The sun will be going down soon, and the moon is here— in her hand! Everyone will notice it missing. Everyone will be in the dark.

But neither she nor the little moon looks worried. They’re both glowing, like they know something I don’t.

She cups it in her palm, careful, almost reverent. Golden light spills through her fingers and paints the air. The shadows around us shimmer.

“Don’t worry,” she says, as if she can read my mind. “It doesn’t belong to the sky the way we’re made to believe.”

Evening arrives, and I look up, expecting darkness—emptiness—but instead the sky begins to freckle with faint light. A thousand smaller moons flicker into place, each one dim but determined.

“They take turns,” she says. The tiny moon in her hand brightens, as if in agreement.

“Doing what?” I ask.

“Being seen.”

She presses the glowing marble into my palm. It’s warm, pulsing, like it has a heartbeat made of light.

“Go on,” she says. “Hold it for a while. It wants to be known up close.”

Above our heads, the night sky finishes spreading out, soft and full, brighter than ever.

For the first time, I wonder how many impossible things are only waiting for someone brave enough to reach up and take them.