Parker’s Moon

Once upon a mountain evening, the Moon climbed over the ridge—round, bright, and ready to shine her silver face. But as she rose, she saw a child below. The girl’s hair was spun so golden it gleamed white in the dew, curls catching the last of the day’s light.

The Moon gasped. “What brightness is this, that glows even before my silver touch?” And for the first time in her long, long life, the Moon blushed. Her pale face turned the color of embers and roses, and the whole mountain saw her glowing red with love.

The girl clasped her Seesa’s hand, shoes half-forgotten after a tussle, and when she spotted the Moon peeking between the trees she twirled. “Look, Seesa! She’s here! The Moon!” she cried. And the Moon, lovestruck, leaned low to listen.

They gathered flowers by her light—Black-eyed Susans like small suns, Ironweed bold and purple, Goldenrod shining as if the girl’s curls had spilled into the fields, Mountain Mint breathing coolness on the night. Sweet Everlasting joined them, promising memory, and Evening Primrose opened her face just for the Moon.

Arms too full, the child ran uphill to her Nana, blossoms tumbling behind like golden crumbs. Seesa followed, picking up every flower she left in her wake. And the Moon, red with love, thought, “So long as she walks this earth, I will follow her with my glow.”

From that night on, the Moon was never just silver again. Sometimes she rose copper, sometimes crimson, sometimes pink as a new rosebud—all reminders of the night she fell in love with a golden-haired child who called her by name.