The Sun, the Moon and the Kiss on the Cheek
“Mom? Why are there so many stars in the night sky?” I queried as I spun myself against the night's delicate breeze. I could imagine my eight-year-old self’s beady eyes staring right into the soul of the abyss, waiting for someone or something to wink back to let her know that she was seen and was not alone in such darkness. “They look like diamond fruit waiting to be picked.” I sang. “I heard the stars were diamond pins placed carefully on a velvet cushion sky, for the moon goddess to then individually weave them in her moonlight hair. Or perhaps the night is where sea foam lies, a haven where the little mermaid disappeared off to, so no one can hurt her broken heart again.” My mother answered, taking my hand and tracing my finger along the constellations of the sky. “What about the sun? Is the sun any special?” I asked. “Of course, the sun is the most powerful deity of all child. He is beautiful and moody, just like your dad. His blush bleeds through the sky and his golden glint wakes us up to remind us of a new day. We are fortunate to have such beautiful and kind gods above us.” she assured. “But what about them? Are they happy? Do they ever see each other?” I questioned. “Hmm… no one can be happy all the time dear, but I think the sun and the moon works very hard day and night, till the day they get to see each other,” she explains. “And when’s that?” I investigate further. “Once a year, on a particular day and time, the sun and moon meet one another and exchange a short glance and perhaps a kiss for their long wait reunion. Just like this!” she explains as she pecks a long warm kiss on my icy cheek. “A kiss?! I knew it, they were in love! But once a year to kiss for only a moment is too unfair.” I whine, wiping my cheek. “It's tragic, but I truly admire their patience, darling.” My mom remarked as she smiled back at the stars above us… To grow up meant possessing knowledge and expertise of the world which our younger selves once pondered with inquisitiveness. Despite the limitations of truth, a child makes do with, I am envious of the magic of their oblivious wonder, as it is what had coloured unanswered queries colourfully. The scope of a child’s kaleidoscopic lens is what has refracted the same story into a multitude of possibilities and lives. I am grateful for my experiences, though I cannot deny that I long for the curiosities of not knowing. I miss not knowing why the moon followed me or not knowing why and when my mom’s kiss to my left cheek began to grow uncomfortable. Why did I ever outgrow something which never was wrong? Why did I critique myself for daydreaming and thus forget and care that I ever dreamed?
