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.
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