01/07/2026
Reading is key for learning a new language. Here is a story I'm working on.
Stopping under the streetlamp, I stared at Manhattan Bridge as I tried to remember the number of streets I had walked. Panic rose within me, and I took a deep breath and looked at the sky. The full moon took me back in time--a time of cherished moments and unquestionable love.
I was seven years and sitting beside my mother on the porch. It was night, and I love nighttime--so secretive, so mysterious. I was thrilled to have my mother all to myself. The entire house was asleep; it seemed like the entire world was asleep. It was just the two of us. The warm, gentle wind was filled with perfume of flowers. Crickets chirped, and fireflies lit up among the plants in the flower garden.
As we sat there gazing at the silver moon flaunting its beauty in the pitch dark, star-sprinkled sky, I asked, “Mom, what’s that shadow on the moon?” I put my small hand in hers and waited for an answer: After all, mothers knew everything.
She looked at me and smiled. “It’s a woman gathering firewood. She must heat the house, if not, her children will freeze.”
“Really?” I asked, puzzled.
“It’s hot here, but it’s cold on the moon.”
I watched her gazing at the moon, and it was at that moment my imagination came to life, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. I rubbed her calloused hand. The image of her, and the story of the shadow on the moon still follows me to this day, a source of comfort and inspiration.
Now halfway across the world, and forty years after her departure, all the beautiful memories that came to mind by gazing at the moon helped to calm my anxiety. My children’s faces floated in my mind. “What important life legacy am I going to leave for them?” I wondered. “What special memories would they have of me?” My mother had left me a legacy of true love and deep connection that defied time. I could almost feel her standing beside me. I suddenly felt a bit stronger.
Footsteps dragged me out of my private world. I felt embarrassed as a pair of questioning blue eyes met mine. I could feel the elderly lady’s eyes tracing lines on my face as she studied me. I spun around and hurried away with one thought blasting through my mind: Am I going to find my way home? I stopped, took three deep breaths, and looked at the beautiful flowers planted in the front yard of a Neo-Colonial house before continuing. I passed the jewelry store, so I had two more blocks to walk before I got home. I searched my pockets, hoping I hadn’t lost my house key. “Where did I leave it?” I felt an explosion of frustration and fear. The key wasn’t in my pocket.
Two teenage girls were walking a few feet in front of me, so I slowed down, not wanting to be too close. They are young and bursting with life, I thought as I watched them.
They waved to a young man who sped by in a red sports car. Images blurred for a few seconds, and I brushed my tears away. The girls were chatting, eating peanuts, and throwing shells on the sidewalk. The red sports car passed again, and the girls excitedly waved to the driver.
I stepped on some empty peanut shells and tears streamed down my cheeks. “Empty shells,” I mumbled. I stopped and looked around, not sure whether to turn left or right. I saw the big red oak, and I knew I had to turn right.
The key was on a chair just outside the door. As soon as I entered the house, I called my three children and asked them to come over. I opened the back door and went to put wood near the firepit.
I went to my studio, picked up my palette and started mixing paint. My heart twisted in pain. I had one important painting to finish: a portrait of my children. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember what colors to mix to get sunset purple although I had done it numerous times. I put down the palette and picked up the family album. It didn’t matter if I couldn’t remember how to mix colors. I looked at my children’s photos. “I don’t want to forget your adorable faces. Ever.”
The sound of a car in the parking lot drew my attention. I put down the album and walked to the door, struggling to put on my brightest smile.
As we sat around the fire, I told them the story my mother had told me. They looked at the moon, listened to the story, and gave me questioning looks, yet no one asked questions. “If you ever need me, just look at the moon.” I studied their faces, and, in my heart, I prayed that I’d never forget who they were.
© Sabeena Baldeo
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