My great nan says the Moon used to be just one color. It was white, or cream, and I guess sometimes a little orange (and then a lot orange, though hardly ever), but really just that one color.
How dull!
And I asked, if the Moon was never emerald green, how’d you know when the Sea Folks would rise from the oceans and the Lake Folks would climb up out of the brine and come looking for babies to eat? How’d you ever know to leave the littlest, ugliest baby out on the porch so they’d take one and leave the rest alone?
And she says there weren’t any Sea Folks or Lake Folks when she was a kid. The Moon was only white and they never left any babies out on the porch.
So I asked, if the Moon was never royal purple, how’d you know when to double-wrap the windows in plastic and stuff all the cracks in the doors with foam so the Fog couldn’t get in? Weren’t you scared of your lungs turning to ash and your skin dissolving into nothing?
And she says the Fog didn’t exist when she was a kid. The Moon was always white and they never worried about their skin dissolving.
Hard to believe, right?
But I asked her, if the Moon was never crimson red, how’d you know that the Hellmouth was about to open and demons with the faces of all your dearest, dead family would crawl out of the ground, asking for their share of blood? How’d you know when it was time to hunt your neighbors and drain every last drop?
How?
She says the Moon was only white back then. The Hellmouth had never opened. And she had never spilled a drop of someone else’s blood.
I snuggle into my great nan’s bosom and feel the firm muscle beneath her oversized sweater. Through the window I can see the Moon rising just beyond the tree line. It’s gunmetal gray and darkening by the moment. Before the night’s over, it’ll be a black void in the middle of the sky.
I shiver with excitement.
Of all the colors of the Moon, I think this one just might be my favorite.
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