The Last Meeting

By Peter Bowden


It happened on the edge of time, when the world held its breath between one heartbeat and the next.

The sun paused in its descent, dipping low over the quiet, shimmering horizon. Its light was golden syrup, spilling thick across the mountains, the moon climbed gently, cautiously, its face pale with awe, as if it too could not believe the moment had come.

They had chased each other for a thousand thousand years, always missing by minutes, always sighing in the other’s wake. One of fire, one of frost. One singing songs of day, the other whispering lullabies of night. They leaned toward each other across the sky’s last breath, not with words, but with memory. The moon remembered tides and children’s wishes. The sun remembered wheat fields and laughter. And for one shining instant, the world was made whole in the hush between them.

Then, like lovers who know the end is written but kiss anyway, they parted.



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