Mina and the Moon’s Little Smile

“The Moon looks round tonight,” Mina whispered. “But it was meant to wear its little smile.”

Mina was a young moon-mender, with silver boots and a tiny tool bag that bumped against her knee. She lived on a quiet patch of the Moon where powdery moon-dust lay in soft drifts. Her job was to mend little moon-things: a dent in a crater, a crooked moonbeam, or a sleepy star’s tangled tail.

Tonight, the Moon looked round from top to bottom. A blanket of space dust had slipped over the bright crescent that usually curved along one side.

“Can you help me?” asked the Moon. Its voice sounded like a low note from a singing bowl.

“I’ll find your smile,” said Mina.

She took a small brush from her bag. Its bristles were made of moon-grass, fine as whiskers. Mina swept the dust away from the Moon’s curved edge.

“Brush it away, let the crescent play,” she sang.

The dust slid aside. For one lovely moment, a bright curve peeked out.

Then the Moon turned, slowly as a sleepy cat rolling over. The loose dust moved with it and slipped right back across the edge.

“Oh,” said Mina. “That didn’t stay away.”

The Moon gave a quiet chuckle. “Dust likes to travel.”

Mina tried a little fan made from a folded star-leaf. She waved it carefully, sending the dust toward a crater. The dust floated over the crater, sailed around its rim, and settled along the bright curve again.

“Brush it away, let the crescent play,” Mina sang, though now she sang it more softly.

She set down the fan and looked at the Moon. The dust wasn’t racing. It wasn’t even in a hurry. It seemed to slide whenever the Moon turned.

Mina walked around the curved edge, watching closely. The Moon turned a little. The dust slid a little. Mina stopped. The dust stopped, too.

“Hmm,” she said. “Perhaps I’ve been asking the dust to go the wrong way.”

The Moon waited. Mina watched the slow turn, and an idea began to curl in her mind, as small and bright as the crescent she hoped to find.

Mina sat beside a shallow crater and watched the Moon turn again. The dust slid along the curve, then gathered in a thin line where the edge dipped.

“It moves with you,” Mina said. “I kept pushing against your turning.”

“I can turn very slowly,” said the Moon. “Slow enough for a careful helper.”

Mina opened her tool bag. Inside lay a wide ribbon of moon-grass, woven from long, springy blades. It was broad enough to catch dust, but light enough to bend around a curve.

Mina carried the ribbon to the Moon’s edge. She laid it along the bright crescent’s hidden path, tucking one end beside a small crater and the other near a round hill.

“Brush, then wait; let the turning set the pace,” she sang.

The Moon began its slow turn. Mina walked beside it, holding the ribbon in place. At first, nothing happened. The dust rested on the Moon like flour on a kitchen table.

Mina’s arms began to feel tired. The ribbon wobbled. A little heap of dust slipped over its top.

“Maybe I should brush again,” she said.

But she stopped. The Moon was turning. The dust was moving. Mina watched the thin line along the edge, just as she had before.

“Stay with the turn,” she told herself. “Don’t chase it.”

She lowered the ribbon so its grassy blades made a shallow pocket. Then she held still.

The Moon turned. The dust slid along the curved edge and met the ribbon. A little puff settled into the grassy pocket. More dust followed, gathering into a neat, pale pile. Mina kept one hand on the ribbon and let the Moon do its slow work.

Around they went, a little at a time. The pile grew no higher than Mina’s boot. At last, the bright crescent appeared, clean and clear, curving across the Moon’s cheek.

“There you are,” Mina whispered.

The Moon smiled its little smile. Its light spread across the make-believe sky, touching the crater rims and the tips of distant hills.

Mina rolled the ribbon beside the tidy pile. “Brush, then wait; let the turning set the pace,” she sang once more.

The Moon’s smile shone above her, and the dust stayed gathered beside the ribbon.

Mina settled onto the powdery ground beside her moon-grass ribbon. The neat pile of space dust sat nearby, quiet as a mound of flour waiting for morning. Nothing needed brushing now. Nothing needed catching.

The Moon turned on, slow and steady. Its crescent cast a shining curve across the hills, then laid that curve over the rim of a crater. The crater looked like a little bowl filled with moonlight.

“Your smile reaches a long way,” Mina said.

“It likes having room,” said the Moon.

Mina leaned back on her elbows. Her silver boots made two small dents in the dust. She could see the whole make-believe sky from there: wide and dark, with faraway stars keeping their places. The Moon’s light ran across it in a bright path.

Mina hummed the tune she had made that evening. First came the old words: “Brush it away, let the crescent play.” Then the newer ones: “Brush, then wait; let the turning set the pace.” She sang them quietly, one after the other, like steps in a bedtime rhyme.

The Moon listened. “You learned how I move,” it said.

“And you showed me,” Mina replied. “I only had to watch.”

A small curl of dust settled on Mina’s sleeve. She brushed it away with one fingertip and watched it join the tidy pile. This time, it stayed there. The Moon kept turning, and the ribbon held the rest in its grassy pocket.

Mina tucked her brush back into her tool bag. She folded her star-leaf fan and placed it beside the ribbon. They could rest together on her quiet patch of moon-grass.

Above them, the crescent shone over the pale hills. Its light reached farther across the sky, laying a clear path for sleepy stars and anyone who looked up from far below.

Mina curled on her side, with the moon-grass beneath her and the Moon’s shining smile above. The quiet surface held still around her, while the Moon turned gently on.

By tomorrow night, the crescent would be ready to shine again.