Mama said, “Marilyn, you’re different from other people; you and Angelique are like the sun and the moon. You are down to earth, loyal, and walk to your own beat; you’re open minded, balanced, and there to help others. You are bold, full of courage, and not afraid to speak what’s on your mind. Genuine, people like you are difficult to find; I am so blessed to have you as a daughter.” Feeling overjoyed, I couldn’t stop smiling; my cheeks incredibly sore. Tears made their way deliberately down my face with a heart overflowing with joy. Mama turned and smiled at me with not her usual yes-I-get-what-you’re-saying smile, but the I-am-so-proud smile. She held my hand for the rest of the ride home and it felt good. Closing my eyes, I thought back to when she would walk me to the park through the lunchbox years. Back then, everything proved that Mama was the greatest person in the world. Opening my eyes, she gave me the same look and I felt honored.

Mama fell ill, Angelique’s light went out, and Papa’s strength failed. For one week my sister cried and worried about my mother’s health, while I stayed strong. Everything Angelique did took spoonfuls of energy away: withering, shrinking, and crumbling down to the bed as she entered Mama’s hospital room. Observing her flames turning to embers, I floated around Angelique, easily pulling her gravity to guide her through an everyday routine—lighting a path of security as the moon does just so she would not fall apart. My stability stayed secure through her, fighting back the tears just to be the bigger person—my defense against the whole situation. Influencing the people around me as not to bother the heart hiding in the shadows; Please don’t leave me like this, I beg you to come home soon—daring not to say the words aloud because the world grew incredibly quiet that night. I watched the stars crawl across the sky as the tears waned through.

Once Mama came home, Angelique bursted with joy and light as she jumped around, making corny jokes to crack a smile from Mama; the only word to describe her was renewed, as she twirled down the hall putting on a show for us. Shades of orange, yellow, and red filled the house as the embers turned into a blazing storm. In comparison, I acted as the subtle comfort, bringing the healing medication, cleaning the stitches, making the occasional dinner, and cleaning the house. For the most part, there were no complaints, though bitter disagreements would rise between the sun and moon nearly causing an apocalypse. I chose not to yell for my mother’s sake, not wanting to disrupt her rest. Even though Angelique would sometimes lose her balance on the tight rope, the string of lights I left for her to follow continued to shine.
There were so many walls I could not break through—places where the moon refused to shine. At times, despair wrapped its chains around me; as my light waned to nothing and left the sky empty. Keeping in mind that it was never too late to be brand new, I remembered the words that had uplifted me. Just like that, the moon became new again and I felt as if I could over come any obstacle, tear down any wall that stood in my way. My sister, on the other hand, faces problems differently. She becomes explosive, boiling, radioactive, words that only seethe her rage. Much like the sun, her words burned holes right into the dark places of one’s soul; her touch left one’s body beyond sunburned, and mind melted—no longer able to think of any way to comfort the small child. Understanding was something that did not come easy to her; usually harsh words must be given back instead of mercy. Finally reaching through the barrier of fire, her light would become soft again.

“Marilyn is cool, in control, elegant with her movements. While Angelique is radiant, bursting with enough energy for a small town, and running wild till she falls asleep.” We settled at each side of Mama while in bed, her revitalizing spirit mending our minds from the trauma Angelique and I experienced.

Polar opposites we are, moon and sun, though together in a harmonious eclipse. Day by day, the stitches healed until they were faint scars, the sun and the moon returned back to their place.

To Mama, I am the moon.