Alice fits the moon in the palm of her hand; she passes it to and fro. Sometimes she cradles its surface to warm it. If she is bored, she rolls it down drainpipes like a marble gathering water in its craters for puddles. She drinks the droplets and spits them out into the shape of stars.
When she was small, Alice’s mother stashed the moon at the back of her closet. On rainy days, she plucked it from behind her grandmother’s jewels. The jewellery box ballerina wore a tutu covered in moon dust. Alice says moon rock is good for your mood and her mother’s Circadian rhythms.
When Kyla said Alice’s moon was fake and you couldn’t just reach into space and grab it, Alice said that’s what they want you to believe. Who could say for sure that Neil Armstrong got there first? If you watch something enough times, you can make it fact or habit.
When Alice’s mum is having an off day, she claims the moon is overrated. She tells Alice to quit showing it off so much, she isn’t the solar system. Alice pops the moon in her mouth for safekeeping. It crumbles like a gobstopper. Kyla warns her not to leave it too long in case all that’s left is gum in the middle. Alice thinks Kyla should harness its powers. In the wrong hands, it could wreak havoc.
Moons don’t ask questions, Alice says. Sometimes she shakes it like a Magic 8 Ball, gazing into every crevice. Is there really a man? we ask her. She holds the moon high, raises one eyebrow, makes her teeth like a rabbit’s. Alice pulls the moon to her ear like a shell, mouthing its alien language. Kyla tuts and rolls her eyes, advises Alice to land it.
Alice carries the moon with the tenderness of memories. It absorbs her secrets; exorcises ghosts. Kyla claims it’s just a stone. Alice says tell that to the tides.
Author's Note:
As the decades pass, I’m better at self-care. I love being outside, so walk or potter around in the garden to offset time spent in classrooms or on screen. Sometimes I run in the lanes around my town. I’ve travelled a lot and remind myself how fortunate I have been to live and work on a different continent. Our house is full of mementoes that make me smile. I am also a middle-aged Indie Kid who dances around the living room to tunes like Ladykillers by Lush or What do I now? by Sleeper. (To the disdain of my son!)
Emma Phillips writes and daydreams near the M5 in Devon, which sometimes lures her away on overseas adventures. Her words have been placed in the Bath Flash Award and appear elsewhere in print and online. Her flash collection Not Visiting the SS Great Britain is available from Alien Buddha Press.
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