Moon

Glitch

I sit cozied by the gas fireplace hearth and the fresh white trim of my living room window, facing the moonlit grid of my neighbors backyards. I gently push the toe of my slipper back and forth against the cookie cutter flooring, rocking myself in a weathered rocking chair - the same one that my soulmate's mother cradled him in in the beginning of his life.
I wrap myself tighter into the red, worn knit of my mother's best friend's cardigan (whom it makes me feel closer to, I'll never know), a treasure from women in my life that brought me more comfort than the softest vegan fur coats ever could.
These tokens of my past life ground me when I begin floating away into the never ending suburban spiral that is my life now. I look down to my journal, the light of the full moon pierces through the clear desert night and illuminates my paper - and I consider what it means To Be a Mother.
I look up to Mother Luna, and wonder how she could possibly be so sure of herself -
so sure that her performance is perfect to a precise decimal point -
so certain in her place and her purpose in the universe.

I look down to write, and my hands are coated in the warm glow of a crackling outdoor fire pit. Where I was holding a knife-sharpened pencil (one of my many small retaliations against total modernization) now grips a small amethyst crystal point. I spin round on my bare heels to look behind me - and am faced with a wall of deep, glistening silhouettes of moaning pines and creeping ferns.
I glance back down at the talisman in my hand, and am struck by the greyscale bareness of my chest.
I listen to the forest creatures hum.
I listen to the breath of the fire.
I hear the laughter of my friends.
My friends -
In this life, I am a woman who bathes her body and her crystals in the moonlight of the Pacific Northwest.
I look up at Mother Luna and wonder how she could possibly be so present, so imperfect -
so valuable and vulnerable -
so essential in her marred surface -
all at one time?

I spin back towards the warmth of the fire, and almost run into a man in a suit. I apologize quickly and straighten my teetering ankles - they are unprepared for the velvet block heels they are now strapped in. I nervously brush my smoothly coiffed hair behind my diamond studded ear, and almost spill the cocktail I didn't realize was in my hand. I graciously take a quick sip.
Bitter.
I exhale audibly and run my tongue against the dry bloom forming at the roof of my mouth.
I gather my bearings -
Rooftop... Corporate... Party?
It must have been a good Quarter at whatever corporation I work for in this life.
I look up, surprised and relieved to see Mother Luna still hanging there despite the drowning decorative lights of the party.
A woman with a commanding presence and a fitted pink dress calls my name, and directs me to come meet three tipsy, sweaty board members. I roll my eyes and take another reluctant sip of my drink - then I steal one more glance at Mother Luna.
The sound and bustling of the party fades as quickly as it came - and is replaced with the gradual whistle of my electric tea kettle.
I shake my attention away from Mother Luna and am again faced with the fresh white paint of my new windowsills. I wipe my brow and trace one finger through the grooves in the wooden arm of the weathered rocking chair that I will someday cradle my own babies in.
I pick up my journal and read:

"You take yourself with you wherever you go.
You are everyone that you could possibly be, all at once.
Mothering will be intuitive to you as it is to the moon."

I close my journal and set it down on the windowsill. I nuzzle the neck of my cardigan up towards my ears, and decide to call it a night.