Moon carol
I’ve been trying to pretend the moon dust is snow, the way you showed me to pretend, with one eye closed and lucky socks on. It’s still the golden sands you made. The beach where we took a holiday by accident. Our summer. And the viewing hatch is still a porthole, and the tide is always about to turn, just over the horizon, and this rudderless space junk is a beautiful pea green boat and we shall drift away. When I fogged up the porthole, the heart you once drew there returned.
Your lunar tunes still play in my berth at random intervals. Your electronic etherphone. Eerie oscillations and ghostly whistles. Only joking, you said. I don’t know how to switch them off. Not yet. Were you playing a love song, or was one eye closed?
I’ve made silver stars, all your favourite constellations. The ones we’d imagine in the sky. Ampersand, Ellipses, Ouroboros.
The comms went down again. Same glitch as August. White noise and snowstorms. Sounds like swallowed words. I’m trusting Control’s bots to fix it soon, down there on Big Blue, like they’ll fix the glitch that beached us. I have to trust them. But you know that.
Talking to you is more interesting than talking to myself.
I found the rations you hid in your berth. Did you imagine Christmas on the Moon? There shall be turkey in gravy and mashed potatoes. There shall be fruit cake and custard. I will believe them to be what they profess to be, like you did. Not yet.
If I went outside the module, out there, I could watch Christmas dawn on Big Blue, again and again all day long. Should I pretend to see Santa and his elves, or hear a thousand church bells? What about herald angels? I think you saw angels. If I go out, I might stay gone, but you know that.
You said it’s easier to start pretending than to stop. Not yet.
Pretending for you is more interesting than pretending for myself.
When I decorated your berth, you gave me your luckiest socks and your electronic etherphone as presents. There shall be yuletide whistles, moon carols. And I’ll close one eye to see a Christmas tree, smell cinnamon, and to be kissed upon my ear. And, whether or not the comms get fixed, I’ll hear all the good wishes from home. Hopes and love meant for me, for your memory, for our moon and Big Blue. And maybe, at some random interval, your lunar tune will join with mine. My heart will return.