The Moon and I

The moon knew me before I did.

.

She watched me become a mother

in the hours no one else could see—

when the house was quiet,

the baby was restless,

and the woman I had been

was still somewhere beneath the skin.

.

She found me on those lonely nights,

sleep-deprived and stitched together,

healing from a C-section,

holding my daughter

brand new.

Perfect.

Small.

Quiet.

.

A whole person

sleeping against a body

that no longer felt mine entirely.

And there she was—

the moon,

hanging above the window

as if she had been waiting all along

like an old friend,

a companion long ago.

Waiting for this version of me.

.

The moon and I—

we slipped in and out of countless nights,

drifting through those first months in a daze

without knowing where one ends

and I began.

.

The moon and I—

Find our groove.

Fill the space between.

Change with the time.

Same time every night.

.

Dancing in her light.

Singing her to sleep

Holding my belly.

Still healing.

Still round and swollen.

Relearning my new self.

Mourning my old.

.

And now—

the moon still finds me.

.

Sometimes she is whole and above the house.

Some nights she is by a thin white curve

caught between the branches.

I understand her better now.

.

There are the phases to her.

Just like there are phases to me.

Moments when I can be full of light.

Others when I'm but a sliver

of the woman I once remembered.

.

Neither means I'm truly gone.

.

So I stand at the window now.

While my daughter sleeps,

my hand resting over the place

where she once lived,

and watch the moon

fade between the clouds.

.

For a moment,

the room goes dark.

.

I don't reach for her yet.

I know now—

she will return.

Be made whole

and so will I.