Letters to the Moon

Dear Moon,

You’ve been following me

for as long as I can remember.

Backseat of my mom’s old car,

you hanging outside the window

like a balloon I forgot to let go of.

I thought you were loyal.

A quiet bodyguard.

A stalker with soft light and good timing.

I used to write you letters.

Crayon handwriting.

Serious questions like,

why does the world keep spinning

if no one feels steady?

You never answered.

I figured silence was its own kind of wisdom.

You saw me spill coffee at 7 a.m.

Saw me stare at the ceiling at 2:36,

wondering if I missed my calling,

if I was meant to dig up bones,

keep bees,

or finally learn how to fold a fitted sheet

without cursing at it.

You’ve seen me snooze alarms

like I’m bargaining with time.

You’ve seen me scroll my phone

like it’s a rosary,

each thumb swipe another prayer

that I’ll figure things out.

You’ve seen me whisper thank you

to the self-checkout machine

because I don’t want to start beef

with the robots.

You’ve seen me trip over air

and still look back,

like embarrassment has witnesses.

You’ve seen every draft I deleted,

the half-smiled waves that weren’t meant for me,

the wrong lyrics I sang too loudly in the car.

You’ve seen me rehearse comebacks

for ghosts who stopped listening years ago.

You’ve seen me laugh too loud in traffic,

at something a stranger’s voice said over the radio—

not really funny,

just true.

And now my daughter looks out the car window,

and I wonder if she thinks you follow her too,

or if her screen already told her

you’re just orbiting.

Predictable.

Mapped.

Explainable.

You still don’t say anything.

You never do.

You just hang there,

soft and smug,

like someone who’s seen it all

and doesn’t need to tell anyone.

You’ve watched me fall apart in quiet ways,

and still,

you shine.

Like forgiveness.

Like you know I’ll look up eventually.

xxo,

N.