She’d been told to look; to look for the man on the moon. So with each moonrise, she climbed out of bed to sit at the window and stare up. If clouds scuttled across the stars, or storms blew in, she slept.
She expected he would look like grandfather, a bit bent and stooped from having to do all the work by himself. No-one ever mentioned a woman in the moon.
Or, maybe he would be a fine gentleman, sitting high on a horse, all lace, velvet and leather. Or, a knight, the glow of his polished armor creating the moonlight.
When the moon was a fingernail sliver in the sky, she thought she might see him dangling off the end, or slouched against the inside curve of the crescent.
Or when it was full, see her prince gallop, or her farmer plant seeds across the broad pale expanse.
Studying the waxing and the waning, she still could not see him; she couldn’t see a single, solitary person – man or woman – on the moon.
So, when at it’s fullest, the moon grins down at her; winking; keeping its secrets to itself.