Elara and the Moon of Tears

Mira did not want anyone to make her feel better.

She said this after three people had tried.

That morning her old goat Sen had left with a travelling caretaker for a quieter winter pasture. Sen’s joints had become stiff, the lower yard was slippery after rain, and everyone involved agreed the sheltered pasture would be gentler for her.

Mira agreed too.

She still hated watching Sen go.

The first person told her, “She will be happier there.”

Mira said, “I know.”

The second said, “You did the right thing.”

Mira said, “I know.”

The third said, “At least she is not gone forever.”

Mira left the room before answering.

Elara found her behind the feed shed, sitting on an overturned bucket.

“Do you want company?” Elara asked.

Mira looked at the empty pen.

“Not the kind that explains why I should not be sad.”

“I can avoid that.”

“Can you avoid asking me questions?”

Elara considered.

“Yes.”

They sat for a while.

A few strands of goat hair clung to the fence where Sen had rubbed against it. Mira picked one free and rolled it between her fingers.

After several minutes she said, “I do not want to sit here anymore.”

Elara stood.

They walked without choosing a destination until they reached the long pond below the orchard.

Dusk had settled over the water. The moon broke into pieces wherever a breeze wrinkled the surface.

Mira sat on the low bank.

Elara sat far enough away that their sleeves did not touch.

For a while neither spoke.

Then Mira said, “Everyone keeps telling me it is better for her.”

“Does that help?” Elara asked.

Mira gave her a look.

“You asked a question.”

“I did.”

“No.”

“All right.”

Mira wiped her face.

“I know they mean well.”

“That does not make it useful.”

Another quiet stretch passed.

Elara watched a moth circle the pond reeds. She did not try to decide what Mira’s silence meant. Mira might want company. She might be tired. She might be thinking about Sen. She might simply have nothing to say.

Mira could tell her if it changed.

Two people approached along the path carrying warm cups and a folded blanket.

Mira noticed them first.

“Please do not let this become a gathering.”

Elara stood before the pair reached the bank.

“Mira wants quiet company, not a group.”

One person, Savi, stopped immediately.

The other, Talla, held up the blanket.

“Should we leave these?”

Elara looked back at Mira instead of answering for her.

Mira nodded.

“Please.”

They left the cups and blanket on a nearby bench and went away.

Mira watched them disappear up the path.

“That was better.”

Elara sat again.

“Good.”

“You can say more than one word.”

“I am adapting.”

Mira almost smiled.

Later she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

One corner was frayed.

“Sen used to chew these,” she said.

“The blankets?”

“Anything she could reach.”

Mira told one story about Sen escaping a pen by pushing the latch with her forehead.

Then another about the winter she refused to cross a puddle shallow enough to show every stone.

Then one about Sen eating half a paper label and leaving exactly the part that said DO NOT.

Elara laughed.

Mira laughed too.

The laugh ended.

Mira’s face folded again and she pressed the blanket to her mouth.

Elara did not decide that the laughter had been progress and the tears were a setback.

Both belonged to the same evening.

When Mira stopped talking, Elara did not ask for another story.

A cloud crossed the moon.

“I am still sad,” Mira said.

“Yes.”

“You agreed very quickly.”

“I can argue if that would help.”

Mira laughed through her tears.

“No.”

Elara stayed.

After some time Mira looked toward the path where Savi and Talla had gone.

“I want them back now.”

Elara stood.

“Both?”

“Both. But no more people.”

Elara went to find them.

Savi and Talla returned without turning the pond bank into a rescue mission. Savi sat on the bench. Talla sat on the grass. Nobody asked Mira to repeat the stories.

For several minutes they watched the water.

Then Talla said, “I remember the paper label.”

Mira looked at her.

“You were there?”

“I was the person who had to rewrite it.”

That began another story.

Savi remembered Sen stealing a glove.

Mira corrected three details.

“No, it was the blue glove.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. The red one was the basket incident.”

There were, apparently, many incidents.

The cloud moved and moonlight returned in broken pieces across the pond.

“It looks like the pond is crying too,” Mira said.

Elara knew Mira was not asking for a lesson about ponds.

She also did not pretend the pond shared human grief.

“I can see why you called it that,” she said.

Savi stirred one warm cup.

“Do you want to stay longer?”

Mira looked at the moon, then at the path home.

“Ten minutes.”

They stayed ten minutes.

When the time passed, nobody announced it.

Mira stood first.

“I want to go home.”

They gathered the empty cups and blanket.

On the walk back, Talla started to say something about Sen being well cared for.

She stopped herself.

Mira noticed.

“You can say it.”

Talla looked uncertain.

“I know she is well cared for,” Mira said. “Tonight I just did not want that used to close the sad part.”

Talla nodded.

“Understood.”

The next morning, Elara saw Mira at the goat yard.

For a moment she wondered whether to go over.

Then she remembered that yesterday’s request was not a permanent instruction.

She raised one hand from a distance.

Mira raised hers back.

Elara kept walking.

Later, Mira found her at the kitchen steps.

“I cried again,” she said.

Elara waited.

“That is not a problem I need you to solve,” Mira added.

“All right.”

“Also, I want company at supper.”

“All right.”

Mira narrowed her eyes.

“You really like that answer now.”

“It keeps working.”

The missing place Sen had left did not disappear.

Neither did Mira’s certainty that the quieter pasture had been the right choice.

Those facts were allowed to sit beside each other without one cancelling the other.

That evening the blanket, the empty cups and several people came to supper because Mira had asked them to.