Moon

by Manuela Russo, 13

“You remind me of the moon” would be a compliment if the sun wasn’t responsible for moon’s visibility. I would touch my hand to my heart with appreciation and stare out my window that night, waiting for the sky to showcase its main event. I might even deem you as the sun and admit that your blinding luminance is why I have no name. I am the blueprint for the companions of the great big celestial bodies that make up our solar system. I am named the definition of a space rock that is caught in the orbit of its best friend. I am The Moon. I am not Titan or Callisto or Europa. I pretend to be a star every night when I am hit with fabricated iridescence. I love it when children pray to me when I am full and beautiful. I appreciate the stargazers and I tolerate the light. The light that I fake to be loved. The world that I created that shouldn’t exist. Moonlight. It isn’t real. It is sunlight I reflect over my features to make my eyes look pretty. It captures my crystals and craters. It is a canvas for the imaginative souls who pretend I am a rabbit or a boy. It is the sun lighting up the sky even when it’s set because it doesn’t trust me to do a good job. My job is to soothe. It’s to remind people that it’s getting too late to keep your eyes open. It’s to touch my hand to my heart. It’s to say thank you and move on.

Red Bank, NJ

*This piece was the first place winner of Voice & Verse as well as the second place winner of Freedom of Expression, 2024 writing contests.