Momento on the Moon

They say it’s no bigger than a helmet, Half-sunk in moondust, beside a crater’s lip— A sculpture of a child's hand, reaching upward, fingers curled mid-gesture, as if to catch a star that isn’t falling. Polished titanium, etched with breath— yes, breath—frozen in time: a woman’s exhale as she said goodbye to the capsule’s cold silence. Her lover’s ring embedded in the wrist. Behind it, a glass cube holds a feather from Earth’s last eagle, a photograph of clouds, and a tape that plays a lullaby in a language no longer spoken. Lunar shadows shift across it slowly, like the memory of someone walking away. No plaque, no flag— just silence holding its breath while Earth hangs blue and distant above. And sometimes, in solar flare storms, the sculpture hums faintly— not by design, but by yearning. They call it Momento: Not monument, not marker— Just a whisper left behind for the stars to one day understand that we were here— and we remembered.