3: The Sea’s lost love.

She had a softly spoken voice; the kind that possesses a rare feature, it seemed to kiss each object that it touched as it gently glided by. She spoke in lullabies and colours even without having to utter a single sound, and could talk to the most timid to the fiercest of beings, earthly or otherwise.


It was thus that I realised that whoever had said the Moon was made out of cheese had probably either been in love with a mouse or somebody Swiss – why mice are supposed to prefer cheese has always been a little beyond me – or perhaps had had a tongue filled with raging taste buds occupied by a deeply rooted obsession with diary.
I had come to this conclusion since she knew Mr. Rabbit in person, after all they shared the same sky, and who’d better know about the moon than him, seeing as he spent most his evenings on its surface, except for those nights when it’s cloudy when I am sure he pops over to its other side in order to join a somewhat sketchy looking purple relative of his, whom I suspect is its resident, for a bit of a chat, some dark chocolate biscuits and a spot of strong coffee.


I have yet to meet him myself though strangely I feel like he somehow knows me. Perhaps we met when I was smaller before the fog in my eyes dispersed itself, when I belonged only to the clouds. I’m sure I must have visited him before; else I don’t quite know why I keep looking up at his moon. Nevertheless, as I mentioned before I have it on good authority that the Moon is not really made of cheese but that in fact it’s made of the most wonderful coconut. Precious as it is the wild Sea still foolishly raises its waves to the sky seeking to seize it for itself or at least catch a touch of its sweet fragrance in the cold night breeze when no one is looking. Consumed by its splendour it aimlessly calls the Moon to itself by projecting a faded image of its beloved, eternally hoping for one day to merge with it the way a wafer merges with the contents of a cup of cocoa by the hand of a sweet old lady, feeling its warm inviting touch melt its essence away into a new greater whole.

Could it be that in the past they shared the same plain and that they themselves met? And that the Sea’s stream of anxious tears for an impossible love turned its sweetness and its clarity into vast salty darkness? Could it be that Mr. Rabbit, moved by seeing the Sea’s desolation, chose to leave his home behind to keep the Moon everlasting company as she parted towards the heavens? And that the Moon itself before parting gave up her immaculate gleam as she adoringly let pieces of herself fall hoping for one to land at sea so it could always treasure a part of her? Sadly none must have made it or else I’m certain that with those pieces the Sea would have created a creature so white and so pure to propagate throughout its entirety in order to fill the void left by the Moon, nurturing it like a father would his offspring, to manifest to the rest of the world the beauty and sincerity of its feelings and to show the Moon its devotion whenever it looked down upon his surface.

And so her offerings, with the warm touch of the sands, must have turned into the coconut giving palms that live by the sea, which cry their fruits still containing her essence close to the breaking oceans who tenderly reach out to them, stroking them reminiscently as if they were the moon itself.