After a long day of harvesting, my mother would take me out to watch the stars. We would lay in the tall brown grass, our sweaty bodies covered in dust, and look up. She told me each star had a story. In hushed tones, she would whisper their secrets. I would laugh and cry and let the vast universe fill me with wonder and pride. I was proud to be on such intimate terms with its personalities.
She always said my round face resembled the moon. I liked stories of the moon best. The moon was lovely. Sometimes it took the form of an old lady who grew so kind and wise, earth could no longer hold her. Other times it was a young child who had drunk too much milk and had floated up to the heavens in a state of creamy bliss. One prosperous summer, triumphant from tree climbing, I tried it. I guzzled a gallon of fresh frothy milk. For a moment I thought I felt lighter, but then the milk hit my stomach. I managed to lick away my mustache, before rolling to the floor. I staggered out to stare at the clouds. I wondered how they did it; how they stayed up. The milk sloshed inside me. I collapsed on the grass, watching a bumble bee fly by. I glared. If it could float then so could I.
In autumn, while we sat in a circle sorting apples, the old man with a fable in place of a heart would spin his tales. He would caution us of the dangerous of laziness, greed, impudence or other undesirable qualities. His parables were flimsy and obvious, yet I remember how they frightened me. To teach us how to protect ourselves from corruption, he would pepper his moral lectures with a good dose of superstition. He told us to always sleep with our name under our pillow to ward of The Sambar, spiders that would steal our soul. To this day, I slip a little piece of paper that carries a careful rendition of my name between my sheets. And sometimes, before I surrender to unconsciousness, I whisper that name softly to myself. It’s a nice reminder and I am very attached to my soul.
I became a story-teller. Maybe I was just full of them, full of starlight and the gentle notion that apples should be sorted. Maybe after drinking all that milk I really had joined the moon.
She always said my round face resembled the moon. I liked stories of the moon best. The moon was lovely. Sometimes it took the form of an old lady who grew so kind and wise, earth could no longer hold her. Other times it was a young child who had drunk too much milk and had floated up to the heavens in a state of creamy bliss. One prosperous summer, triumphant from tree climbing, I tried it. I guzzled a gallon of fresh frothy milk. For a moment I thought I felt lighter, but then the milk hit my stomach. I managed to lick away my mustache, before rolling to the floor. I staggered out to stare at the clouds. I wondered how they did it; how they stayed up. The milk sloshed inside me. I collapsed on the grass, watching a bumble bee fly by. I glared. If it could float then so could I.
In autumn, while we sat in a circle sorting apples, the old man with a fable in place of a heart would spin his tales. He would caution us of the dangerous of laziness, greed, impudence or other undesirable qualities. His parables were flimsy and obvious, yet I remember how they frightened me. To teach us how to protect ourselves from corruption, he would pepper his moral lectures with a good dose of superstition. He told us to always sleep with our name under our pillow to ward of The Sambar, spiders that would steal our soul. To this day, I slip a little piece of paper that carries a careful rendition of my name between my sheets. And sometimes, before I surrender to unconsciousness, I whisper that name softly to myself. It’s a nice reminder and I am very attached to my soul.
I became a story-teller. Maybe I was just full of them, full of starlight and the gentle notion that apples should be sorted. Maybe after drinking all that milk I really had joined the moon.
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