It sparkles merrily on the ocean waves around Retirement Island and illuminates the lesions on my father’s dying, 40-year-old body. It dances around invisible busboys as they serve up the supplements that keep him alive and purposeless.
It promised loyal silence in its weak light before its permanently surprised smile reported me. It whispered into Nabal’s deaf, cheating ears while he devoured my best friend and forgot his Matching Vows to me. It tattled to my drunken mother when I crept around her cavernous house and stole my drawings back. It told Them when I woke in the night with Qadmiel’s song on my lips, and when I asked aloud after unseen apparitions startling me on the stairway.
It is the same moon that now shines down on the ugly expanse of The Waste outside The Boundaries, illuminating the grasses that will swallow my dry bones when my body expires.