It is strange to say that whenever I am at my warmest and most contented inside, I am unable to speak instead, and my hands don’t obey me. Obviously, I learned to draw and others say I have a talent for it, but when it comes to putting pen to paper or opening my mouth, I get stuck.
When I was a child, my family was not well off and I lived in a narrow and old alley in the city. Although I didn’t live very high up, because I was on the top floor, I could see the whole roof and the sunshine. When I first came to the city, I was especially homesick. There are no woods or green hills here, only dense chimneys. I was alone, I didn’t know anyone, and I didn’t even have anyone to say hello to.
That night, I stood staring at the window and suddenly opened it. Do you know what I saw? The moon! It was the moon of my hometown. It was the same as always, smiling at me through the willow leaves. I was really happy at that moment. I waved at it and it poured light into my room. From that day on, it came to visit me for a little while every day, even if it was short. And it said to me, “Tell you the story of what I saw.”
First night: lights by the Indus River
“Last night I flew across the Indian sky,” said the moon on its first visit, ”shining on the Ganges, and the light went through the leaves of the sycamore tree. The leaves of that tree were as dense as a tortoise shell.”
It said that an Indian girl came out of the woods, moving as lightly and beautifully as a fawn. She held a lamp in her hand, and the straw shoes on her feet were cut by the vines, but she went on. The wild beasts were frightened and dodged away when they saw her.
The little girl placed the lamp gently on the river and let it flow with the current. She stared nervously at the lamp, her eyes full of anticipation. For she believed that as long as the lamp did not go out, the man she loved was still alive; if it went out, then he was probably gone.
The wind blew sharply and the lamp swayed. Her hand was protecting the flame, and I could clearly see the lines on her fingers. She knelt down and prayed, thinking of her God and her faraway lover.
“He’s alive!” She finally cried out. It was as if the other side of the valley responded, “He’s alive!”
Night Two: The Little Girl and the Hen
The next night, the moon came again. “Yesterday I saw a hen with a flock of chicks in a yard.” It said, “A little girl ran over to them and chased them, and the hen freaked out and spread her wings in front of her to protect the babies.”
Papa came out and admonished her a few times, and the moon thought it was over.
But tonight, Moon glanced into that yard again. The little girl snuck in, opened the door, and got into the chickens. The hens fluttered their wings and squawked, and the chicks scurried everywhere. The little girl ran after them, and the moon could see them clearly.
Papa came again, scolding more fiercely this time. The little girl bowed her head, tears falling down her face. She cried, “I just wanted to go and kiss the hen …… I wanted to apologize to her because I scared her family yesterday. But I didn’t dare to tell you.”
Papa listened, was silent for a moment, and then kissed her on the forehead. The moon also said quietly, “I kissed her eyes and lips too.”
Third Night: A Fading Rose
On the third night, the moon appeared in a narrow, dark alley. It had only a minute to spare, but in that minute it saw a woman-a girl who had once been like a flower.
Sixteen years ago she was a little girl playing in the garden of the parson’s house. She was like a blooming rose then, sitting on a bench holding her beloved doll. Though the garden was deserted and the rose withered, she was still beautiful.
Ten years later, the moon saw her again, already the bride of a rich merchant, radiant at the ball. The moon is happy for her. But it also knows that life is not always so beautiful.
Tonight, it saw her again. This time, she was lying in a hospital bed, thin as a sheet. The landlord coldly lifts her covers and orders her to get up and work or he will throw her out.
She said weakly, “Death is gnawing at my heart, please let me rest for a while.”
But no one listened to her. The landlord powdered her face, put in some fake roses, sat her in front of the window, lit a candle, and left.
The wind blew in through the window and shattered the glass. She sat still, like an extinguished candle. The curtains fluttered, the candlelight wavered, and she never opened her eyes again.
The moon whispered, “This is the same rose that was in the pastor’s garden back then.”
