Under the Moonlight

22

For the entire afternoon, we had spent our time together in solitude; our feet drenched in the river as she had laid her head down.

Then finally, she started to speak again:

"You'll be leaving soon, aren't you?"

After a short silence, I spoke.

"Yes."

She looked rather disappointed, one that paints a thousand words on her face– an expression that can't be determined by grownups like me.

Perhaps she had always known, the mere fact I've been finding a river simply to get my way back home, as rivers do eventually lead up to towns and civilization.

"I am glad you have found your way now," she said. "Now you can now go back home–"

She said in such resolution,

"How do you know about that?"

I was just doubting myself whether or not she had known.

She made no answer to my question, but she asked me:

"Remember what the poet gave to me?"

I had not replied, though I nodded.

"I had read it," she said.

Then much to my surprise, she added,

"I didn't know the poet would be that sad."

"Why?" I asked.

She didn't bother answering my question yet again.

"Do you think the poet has always been alone... Or men, in particular?"

"Well, the pilot always has his plane, and the poet always has his pen."

"But what about a friend?"

"I have you."

The girl had not responded to what I said, though she gave me a smile.

"Do you remember your promise?"

I had almost forgotten about it, although it had always been in my pocketbook. So I showed her my poetry and rough drafts of paintings that I'd been working on for the past several days since I arrived.

"Oh, this is remarkable!" She said in delight, "the bellflower looked almost exactly like it."

"Is that so?" I said, "I'm glad."

The girl laughed as she looked on further at my drawings and paintings.

"The rabbit... It looked timid as ever!"

"Because it was a timid rabbit."

"I know," she chuckled, "the deer–it looked as elegant and as prideful as they should be!"

"Oh!"

I had never been so proud of admiring my own paintings.

"Your butterfly–it looked exactly just like mine!"

"Thank you."

As I proceeded to give her the poem, my heart was suddenly torn.

"You have plans that I do not know about," I said.

But she did not answer me. She said to me instead:

"Once one starts writing poems, they've already grown."

Then after a silence, she went on:

"I love your poem. It is much less sad than what the poet had given to me."

And, for some reason, I felt a strange sensation of grief once more. However, one question did occur to me:

"What was written in the poem?"

"Sadness," she said, "everything has an end, he said, nothing is forever, he said."

The girl said with grief and dismay.

"But what he could not see is the heart, those our heart seeks for those who we care about remain forever, does it not?"

"Yes," I said, "they do."

"Oh, what a pity," she said, "We all grow up, eventually."

"But not everyone forgets," I said.

"Indeed."

After a brief silence, she stood up and looked at the sun setting behind the mountain.

She pointed her finger at the sunset, then began to speak:

"One thing I had noticed on every sunset." she said, "it always says something about something."

"Do you experience sunset?" I said, "back on the moon?"

"Barely."

After a brief silence, she added:

"Sunsets are nice, for once."

"Sunsets always signify an ending to a day and a beginning to a night," I said.

"It is sad," she said.

As she walked onwards, in the direction of the river, she spoke:

"We must go now–let's look at the sunset... one final time,"

She held my hand as I stood up and looked at the sun setting behind the mountain.

"At this very moment, I met you," the girl said, "I had met you at a sunset."

I chuckled and said:

"Yes, I do remember clearly."

"Sunsets make me feel sad because that's where most things end for me, a day with the butterfly, with the bellflower, the poet... But you–I met you on a twilight." she said, "that alone made me feel happy."

"I'm glad if it had made you happy–"

As I was speaking, I was abruptly cut short as the girl began speaking as well.

"I too am going back home soon," she said, "but it is much farther, it is more difficult."