THE LETTERS

Moon
October 8, 1917

Dear Earth,

I am the moon, lonely and quiet. I am God’s satellite in the sky, and a soft, hazy orb of nigh. Your people say there is a face upon my golden core, but there is nothing but empty me. For millenniums I have directed the sea and lit the sky when the Sun tires. It seems as if my light is fading. No more can I find it in myself to create shadows or cast flecks of fractured light on your face. Oh Earth, I am in need of company. What shall I do?
Moon


Earth
October 10, 1917

Dear Moon,

You must know that I have thought deeply about this matter, and decided that you are worthy of contentment. I will send one of my children to you. The One I am sending to you is fragile and new. It will be your honor to raise such a creature. Show her the beauty in your darkness. Teach her that forever is not a matter of Time. Answer her questions, and care for her needs tenderly.
She is yours.
Earth


THE GIRL
October 14, 1917

I glance up at the yawning sky
Clouds froth at the base of blue mountains, and swirl in slow coils.
The moon ignites only the outline of all that is below.
It sits
perched in a pocket of cloud dust and outer space.
Captivation imprisons my soul.
I reach towards the sight,
as if to pluck the moon from its solemn roost.
I caress air with outstretched fingers instead.
Lulled now,
each of my pastel eyelids
meet each other affectionately,
like old friends.
Dreaming,
my cold toes lift from frozen soil.
I am greeted with the perception of flight.
Through layers of light, clouds and wind currents,
I rise towards cosmic skies.
Deaf to the etude of Time’s distorted spell,
a thin, frail twine detaches from my loose grasp and flutters away.
I wanted to let go of the world.
“It has become such a burden to
hold one world
on a string
from so far away.”
And so the moon captures me in its gradient light.
Rising. Rising.
The creeping of, cold becomes strangely comforting,
as the sapor of new atmosphere tastes sickly sweet.
Too sweet.
I panic in realization.
Not just a mile into the air,
reality arrests my
fantasy.
All that lies in front of me is the
Moon.


THE FARMER
October 14, 1917

Twas after supper when the farmer’s daughter awoke from her bed with a cough. His wife took up the bellow and stoked several coals, flickering red with warmth. The farmer shook his head, tugging his mind out of the brief dormancy he momentarily enjoyed. Exchanging subdued whispers with his wife, he slipped into a stiff winter coat to fetch warm milk.

The thick soles of the farmer’s winter boots squandered among the sucking of mud. Autumn’s loud whisper made difficult work of sailing through the icy night. The farmer opened his mouth towards the thick, wet sky and exhaled a white breath. In just a moment, it crumpled into black, taunting the man with its freedom.

The farmer smelt of pine needles and firewood, and his nails never actually met the underlying tissue of his finger. Instead, Iowa soil rested between the cracks. A pink scar kissed his left cheek, and wisps of golden hair brushed into copper-beryl eyes.

At the barn, the farmer fumbled for the latch and entered. He glanced at the corner in which he concealed his bottles of gin, beneath saddlebags and hay. Without warning, a thirst developed in his mouth, raging on his tongue, toiling with his mind. He hungered for the alcohol, ached for it.

He must act quickly.

Heavy with breath, the enraged farmer broke for the watering trough. Immersing cupped hands into the frigid water, he drenched his face. For minutes he stood there, crouched over the animal bin. Staring into the water, he noticed the scar that almost reached the corner of his eye. The tired incision made from the blade of a broken whiskey bottle, hurled by the arm of a drunken father. He bit his lip until it bled. The farmer would never have become a tortured soul if it weren’t for the early exposure to whiskey and beer. His anger ceased though, knowing that his daughter would never discover the pain he often endured. After all, she couldn’t really smell his addiction when he kissed her goodnight.

Gathering the milk he came for in a large, silver pale, the withered and broken farmer entered the frigidness once again. Heading towards the homely warmth his raw bones desired, something caught his eye.

He turned to face a moon, bold and full. The farmer became deaf to Time’s urgent call, as captivation overcame his will to move.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the southern edge of the moon's curvature. He squinted and saw the silhouette of a girl rising into the dark, clouding sky. In realization, the farmer fell to his knees and wept. The milk pail was no longer hanging from his curled fingertips, but rising towards his Grace, who had disappeared into the light of the moon.