The moon visited me when I was six years old. It appeared in my bedroom window—a huge, ivory-gray sphere. The floating orb was close enough to touch, but I didn’t. I was afraid of scaring it away.
It was a hot, muggy summer night, still light outside. My sister Mary and I, in panties and undershirts, were already in bed. We were lying on top of the covers of our little fold-up cots. If you stayed still, it didn’t seem so hot. Still, beads of sweat pooled above my lip.
The bedroom window was wide open, but the air was not moving. My cot was directly beneath the window, lengthwise against the wall. Mary’s cot was against the opposite wall of the small bedroom we shared. Her nose was buried in an Archie’s comic book. She didn’t want anything to do with me that night. She was in a snit about something. I never knew what set her off most times. But there was always a vague sense that whatever it was, it was my fault. At ten, Mary was in charge. At six, I did what I was told, having already learned the fine art of walking on eggshells.
Excerpt from short story, “Praying to the Moon” by Kara Pomeroy(C)