The Man in the Moon Told Me

By Peter Bowden

The man in the moon told me he’s been watching a long time. Before cities rose, before machines flew, before men thought to name the stars. He spoke in a hush, like someone remembering stories that no longer belong to him. He’d seen lovers meet in fields, soldiers sleep in trenches, children reach for him through windowpanes. He did not judge. He only watched.

He said he used to shine brighter when people looked up more often. Now they rarely do. Their heads are bent toward tiny screens, their nights washed in the glow of a different kind of moon. But he’s still there, old and silver and patient. He remembers how wolves used to howl and how women once sang lullabies under his glow. He misses the songs.

Before I left, I asked him what he thought of us. He smiled—a quiet cratered curve. “You forget too quickly,” he said. “But you always remember again when the sky is clear.” And then he was quiet, letting the silence stretch between us like moonlight on water.

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