I asked the moon

I ask the moon for a star, and it gives me a rock.

Not its rock, but a rock that reminds me more of the earth than the moon. Instead of gray moondust, it’s full of lush greens with small brown cracks. It has gray scars along its sides that remind me of fossils, a testimony of a different time.

I ask the moon for a star again, and it gives me nothing.

I’m not sure if it gave me air or if it didn’t hear me. Few hear me. So, I raise my voice and ask for a star again. But it still doesn’t answer.

I ask a star for a star, but it replies that it doesn’t want to give away a part of itself. And it doesn’t want to give away anyone else.

So, I sit with my green and brown rock, turning it over and over. I wash it in a river and under a facet, but it still looks the same. A part of me wonders if it is how stars really look. I mean, I am at least a million miles away from one, so who am I to know what a star actually looks like?

I put it in its own pot on my windowsill and wait and wait as the months turn into years. The rock fades into the background as other responsibilities distract my mind. Always five new tasks from completing one. I wait so long that I forget the rock is even there.

As I pack up the last of my apartment, I reach for the green and brown rock from so long ago, but in its place is a dull green star, barely giving off any light. It’s warm to the touch.

How I must’ve forgotten that one doesn’t start out a star but is molded into it.

Copyright © Robin LeeAnn

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