The Man on The Moon

My only friend was the man on the moon. My confidante’s gentle, shining light was a

companion. He playfully peeked through the tattered curtains and onto the peeling wood walls of the small room I’d share with the other three people. He was a comforting glow that weaved

through my messy, black hair as I peeked out the holes of the second floor of our barrack. He

was my only reminder of home at Galang Refugee Camp.

As I stared into the pale face every night, my mother’s stories about the Chú Cuội still

faintly whispered through the air: how his wife watered his magical banyan tree with unclean

water, it suddenly sprouted as he hung into its branches, soaring to the moon. How I wished I

could go there, too. Here, there were no toys. There were no new clothes; there was only waiting

and thinking, and rats. Though I had little, I always had the moon. “Chú Cuội,” I’d mumble.

“Please say hi to Mother for me.” No matter where I was, the moon was still the moon. The

luminous body that sat in the pitch was the same moon she saw.

I would close my eyes and drift into the tides of the changing phases. Floating past the

jungle-covered mountains and dirt roads, I would sail through the shimmering silver river to

greet and thank the mysterious man at his tree. His glow was what gave us purpose. He was our

boat’s guide toward the land of promise and possibility. He was why the kind teacher let me sit

and learn in her classroom even though I wasn’t old enough. He was the love mothers gave me

when I didn’t have one. He was the beacon of hope, casting his glow upon my path. As I would

venture toward him, butterflies danced across the midnight sky. I looked up to the endless beauty

of space, seeming to twinkle as I waved my arms freely on my boat. The clear ring of golden

bells overpowered the heat, and the hunger, satisfying my sad longing. The moon was all I could

see. The moon was all I could feel.

When we were approved by the US Delegate to move to Washington with my uncle,

every night, I could still see the moon. Even as I learned a new way of life, I could still see the

moon. After picking blueberries off bushes in the field in the early morning, after my father

washed dishes all day to scrape up enough money for rice, and after I went to my

English-speaking classes, the moon patiently waited for me every night. Though Chú Cuội’s face

changed, he was still the moon. He still guided me through the struggles of my changing world,

and he continued to light the journey I embarked on.

The moon remains my beacon and my reminder of change throughout my life. Though

my phases have changed so much from being a young boy living in the clouds of uncertainty to

the stability of my life with a family and a rat-free home, I can still look up to the moon as a

symbol of the light that stays the same. Courage, self-strength, and most importantly hope, even

though they may wax and wane, never truly disappear. Even in the darkest of times, the moon

reminds me that there is always a glimmer of light waiting to emerge from the shadows. So, I

continue to look up at the big night sky, waiting to greet my brilliant friend in the darkness. The

moon, my unwavering companion.