Brave little moonchild, how I yearn to be like you.
I will never have your feathery silk coat, all shimmering sable.
Yours alone is the lunar energy that whirls you like joy’s dervish.
But, Luna, if you teach me even a fraction of your courage, I may yet learn to shine.
You were scarcely the size of a shadow when the stars fell.
Losing your mother was the first wound. At this point, many would turn away from the sun, once and for all. It is easier to be a fist of stone than a heart that burns.
But that is my species, not yours, Luna. Even in the dark, you remembered you were new.
Just when you mustered a crescent of courage, again the light retreated. We were not there with you on the streets of Beirut. Were it in our power, we would have called upon all the constellations to shield you like a star blanket. But the car came, with no one to stop it, and you were paralyzed.
This is the place where a creature as small as me might grow old in an instant. Innocence is more fragile than a kitten’s bones. There is a kind of armor that keeps out the hurt, at the price of hope. But you, Luna, remembered to remain a moonchild.
You were too brave to look down.
Can you teach me, Luna, to dare the sky to come through on its promises? I may never see the world through golden eyes like yours. But, if I sit long enough by your side, perhaps my sight will adjust to the light that is not gone, even when all seems lost.
You resolved to lift your gaze, and also to cry. That is where my species gets confused. We think that to wail is to be weak, and to demand is to despair. Yet it was your unashamed mewing that awakened mercy.
A woman bright as day came to your aid. She built you a little box against the wind and cold. She longed to keep you but did all she could.
Did you know, even then, that the sky needs many stars? I think I would have clung to the first kindness, Luna. I would have assumed it was the last, and the only. We are hoarders, we humans, always afraid we are on love’s last thread.
But you, with your brilliant black sunburst of hair, see the wider tapestry. You expected to go from love to love, and so you did. The angels of Animals Lebanon enfolded you in their wings. You learned to scamper. You kissed the tears from the faces that announced you were leaving soon.
You were going to Tabby’s Place, where needy creatures nurture each other, and where paralyzed cats are treasured as gold.
You heard the word “paralyzed” so often, you assumed it must mean something beautiful. Perhaps “beloved,” or “favored,” or even “moonchild.” Clearly, it was a good word.
How do you translate the breaking into the healing, Luna?
You sparkle up at me with those true, topaz eyes, and I know you don’t remember the day or the hour you were “disabled.” The details of your flight from Lebanon to New Jersey have turned all feathery and irrelevant. You are wholly here now, a passenger of love, yet the pilot of your own story.
Over and over, you choose the jet stream of gentleness and hugging. You lean into excitement when you could stay unimpressed. Food, jangly toys, and fingers skritching your neck could all have gotten very old by now.
But you have determined to stay a moonchild, younger by the day.
Luna, I am ten times your age, but only a sliver of the survivor you are. I scowl in a power outage, or declare the day ruined if my favorite ice cream is out of stock.
Meanwhile, you scoot as close as you can to life, so the light may catch your cheekbones and dance every inch of your face.
Teach me to be full.
Mentor me in hope.
Show me the secrets of gratitude, that someday, perhaps, I too may be a moonchild.