Wondering Where the Moon Has Gone

Once in a while, when I barely expect it, moments like these come. Vernon is out doing what Vernon does, and Dudley is off with his mates, and I am alone in my bright, spotless kitchen in the house on Privet Drive.

And a moment comes. Just out of the blue, in a flash, one might say.

And I'm back home, so painfully invisible, and she's next to me, glorious as the moon on a clear midwinter night.

And I wonder what's become of me, in these unexpected moments. Wonder when the sadness turned to hate, when "I'm not good enough..." hardened into "I hate...." At what moment, what day, what precise hour, did the victim become the offender?

And in these moments, these unexpected moments, I smell a hint of honeysuckle. And it comes to me in full-color, startling sweet clarity.

A vision of myself. Without the hate, without the jealousy, without the anger.

The Me Who Might Have Been.

And she is not beautiful. She is no Lily Evans. And she is not funny, with a laugh sweet like crystalline bells. And she is not desired, pursued by a man who charms and infuriates her.

Without the hatred, without the pain, without the jealousy, she is still not Lily.

But she is good.

The vision looks at me. I see compassion in her eyes, a tenderness I cannot remember ever seeing in photographs or rear-view mirrors.

The Me Who Might Have Been watches. She sighs. She reaches out a single, slender hand.

I never take her hand. If I touch her, she fades, sparkling into a mocking nothingness, a ripped-open wound where hope had shimmered.

So I watch, birdlike, curious but at a safe distance. And I fight to swallow tears, because The Me Who Might Have Been is lovely. Precious and lovely, and magical in her own sad way.

And I set my jaw, staring motionless, praying I can make the moment hold, just a little longer this time.

And Vernon barrels into the kitchen, his puffed-red face excited, bursting to tell me some story about work.

And I pull my eyes quickly away from the ripped-open wound where The Me Who Might Have Been has sparkled away.

I carve that tight, ugly smile into my tight, ugly face. I laugh my tight, ugly laugh at his ugly jokes.

And tonight, when the sun goes down, he will take me to his bed. If supper has gone down well and he's not too tired from the day, he may climb onto me, panting and groaning in the short time it takes. He may call me "love," or "sweet." If it's a certain kind of night, "naughty tart."

I may enjoy it. Or I may think of my groceries, of what needs to be bought at the market on Saturday. And I will moan in the appropriate places, so-as not to hurt his pride.

And when he has gone off to sleep, I shall clutch my sensible gown about my long frame, debating whether it's too late to put on my masque, and stare out the window, wondering where the moon has gone.

The End