[Elizabeth]
SECTION FIVE: wish upon a star
I am alone. An expanse of glittering stars stretches over the roof, moonlight illuminating the railing. Sounds of city traffic and rowdy college students echo in the darkness. Closing my eyes, I block out the wave of memories that washes over me: mother’s smile, father’s laugh, his eyes.
Nights are spent on the roof, wind blowing through my hair and cheeks tinged with pink. My childhood is behind me, but I cannot escape the haunting of memories. I used to hold moments in my hands, clasping them tightly and fearing they would somehow escape my mind. Now, I look to the stars and fling them into the dark blue canvas as if I can somehow deny the universe, alter the past, decide my future.
But I can’t. I’m stuck in this never-ending cycle that seems to go on and on and I wake up and I go to sleep and I eat and I remember to breathe. Sitting alone on the roof, I almost laugh at what my younger self would think of the life I lead now. Disappointed, probably. Her dreams were filled with clear blue oceans, rocky cliffs, buildings of stone, beams of sunlight, rays of moonlight.
Running my finger along the building’s walls, I remember the feeling of unbridled happiness as I ran through the sprinklers. Tears prick my eyes and I sink to the dirty floor. I stay that way for the rest of the night.
* * *
[Eve]
SECTION SIX: the eclipse of the self
Time has passed, and I know now: all our lives gather under the moon, not just mine. People on the streets at night, giving her their pleas, their desires, and dreams. It brings together any two souls and wraps them in white.
It was the equinox the night that the moon agreed to take my pain. Her grey, rocky surface - where lost lovers make their bed and memories hold their scent. It was the hunters moon that held my inner child so tenderly, the moon when the twilight stretches as late as the waves will allow, as worn-out workers tend lovingly to the land that feeds them.
The moon is not a revolving star, it revolves and shines from the wishes it carries.
It shines, yes, and it feeds. Feeds on the nostalgia we give, that each of us give so willingly. We fail to confide in one another and use the night sky like a cupboard, with jars of summers past. Dusty, fermenting memories we wish to cut from our brains. Synapses gliding away from one another, waiting for the trigger to bring them back. The moon gently lifts them and keeps them safe; you only have to ask.
I was not so swayed. No, the moon doesn’t follow, doesn’t find…she waits for us to come to her. I was too wrapped in my lover’s words, waiting for the moon to step down from the sky and climb into my window. Waiting for the moon to take all the remorse, all the grief of this life and follow me eternally. I thought the moon would have her face.
But time has passed, I have healed in the strangest of places, though I still ache in the centre of it all. I walked across the land that autumn night and knew, I was already one with the moon. If we are made of stardust like they say, we are already of the night sky. I gave myself up and I thanked her, told her to keep my parted lover safe and my golden memories whole and I swear, I saw her wink. Fairy of the night, she knows – what small human frame can hold all this bittersweet life we live.
Special Edition. Contributers’ Compilation
In Picture. HENRI CARTIER-BRESSON, PARIS (CAT, 1964)
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