The yellow moon glowed in her bedroom window. Like her mother, she could not sleep without the prickle of night air against her cheek. Laying beside the open window pane, the pure-smelling wind crawled over her blankets.
Her chest rose and fell restless as she stared out at the moonlit trees. The orb was full, casting everything outside into a story she might wander through. Like a maiden, barefoot in the dainty light, off to find some ethereal journey. It stirred her heart until her chest and bed felt a prison.
There were other stories she could wander into though, spun in evening news cycles and on milk cartons. Vagrants who slept beneath those trees, hard-eyed teens breaking bottles behind the train tracks, missing girls eventually found in stranger’s cars.
She rubbed the itch from her feet and tucked her blankets over her shoulders until the night air only chilled her nose. She settled deep into her bed, ignoring the beckoning night. Next month, next moon, she promised.
The yellow orb waxed again until it hung swollen over the mountains, framed in the night by her bedroom window. She betrayed its ache in her chest for the warnings of the waking world.
Like the moon, her hips widened. She did not wander out into the coaxing night lest someone find her and her newly supple limbs. One day a man came to gently grasp her hand and she fell into his bed. Though she breathed the wild night seeping from their propped window, she did not steal away under the expectant moon, lest he notice the empty space beneath the blankets.
Her belly swelled like the moon that called to her. When her children shivered beneath their window, she closed the pane and only remembered the tonic night smell amidst the warm and sweet cloy of the nursery.
The moon waned. Her children grew, the man grayed. The chill of night air stabbed vengeful slivers of ice into her bones. When spared the timeworn chatter of husband and child, she slipped out into the yard and gazed beyond their little fence and smiled, feeling the cold and its deep ache.
Her wide hips shrunk again, the man could no longer grasp her hand, her children did not shiver beneath her window or call anymore. She looked up at the yellow moon.
It waited for her, casting the trees in white gold and cradled in the distant mountains. She breathed in the cold and it stole the warmth from her chest. With only one story left, she left into the night to wander in its dainty light.
Raw Rambles challenged me to write something to or inspired by Fleet Foxes “Blue Ridge Mountains”, which I happily posted above.