The Moon Sheds

The moon never clings.

(Or at least that’s what I keep trying to remind myself.)

Some weeks ago, during a massage—me on the table—the therapist pressed above the bony flesh of my right hip and said she heard whispers from my past. There they were, ghosts of my four‑year‑old self, imaginary friends who kept me company as I first experienced my body as its own.

They were the first friends I lost—those who held on for a little while and then left, who never fully arrived.

I’ve been training for this my entire life—this slow art of shedding, a wholeness, a remembrance, a trust that whatever fades was never truly meant to be held.

Child‑me knew how to survive the sting—speaking to her ghosts, tracing their shadows along the hollow wall—until night kissed them farewell as sunlight splattered across the paint‑chipped windowsill.

Grown‑me is beginning to comprehend that every loss, real or imagined, leaves a sting, a sharpness where something used to be—each loss a testament to being alive, leaving a space where fragile joy takes root.

The moon never clings.

It grows, it fades, loosens its hold, and welcomes this shedding,

this opening,

this soft, pale revealing of a wild, brave one who has been waiting.

She is full of breath.

She is iridescent.

She is learning to stand firm on her own.