A Full Moon and an Empty Field

NM4247HM Creative Writing in the Marketplace - Micro Essay

At sixteen, amidst the rollercoaster of adolescent discovery and my first taste of love, I stumbled upon a special place that would etch itself into the fabric of my memories. An empty field, bathed in the glow of the moon, became the silent witness to my journey through relationships and self-discovery.

The landscape rolled with the steep slopes of dewy grass, forming sinuous patterns that mirrored the twists and turns of my emotions. This quiet haven, once desolate yet profoundly romantic, held the echoes of immature giggles that eventually transformed into heated quarrels and an unhealthy dependence. Three years later, our love story shattered, leaving the field to bear witness to the broken pieces.

As the clock neared midnight and the moon, a mere crescent, cast feeble light upon the field, we sought closure in its quiet expanse.

“We can’t be each other’s halves,” I solemnly spoke, gazing up at the vast sky. “One day, perhaps, when the moon is full, it’ll be a reminder that we are our own persons.”

Pain, loss and grief lingered, casting a shadow over the once vibrant blades of grass that now looked grey. Another year unfolded, introducing someone new, and I glimpsed at what seemed like a full moon. Yet, two years later, the same conclusion mirrored the past: the one I thought was ‘the one’ wasn’t good for me.

That fateful week marked more than just the demise of a relationship. My grandfather suffered a stroke, close friends walked away, and I succumbed to COVID-19. Each dark night, tears became my reluctant companions, lulling me to sleep and ushering me into the realm of haunting dreams. The moon, once a guide through emotional darkness, vanished altogether.

Emerging from a week of quarantine, I found solace in the familiar embrace of the field. Swollen and teary-eyed, I stared blankly at the setting sun — the melting hues of orange, red, and yellow. The comforting silence and the wind’s gentle caress began to erase the painful flashbacks that haunted my solitude. Something in me healed as the sun went down.

“Thank you, God…for everything still,” I whispered, feeling a subtle renewal within.

Weeks turned to months, and the field underwent a transformation. Construction replaced unobstructed layers of lovegrass and flowery trees, a stark reminder of Singapore’s ceaseless development. Despite the devastation, I kept returning, sometimes alone, other times with my Sheltie. Each time, I’d capture the changes in photographs, hoping for a return to the past. My collection of nostalgic photos is the only remnant of the landscape, and I had a bad habit of wallowing in them.

One day, someone special entered the narrative—a friend. Together, we trudged through the remaining untrimmed patches of the field in silence, finding therapy in shared presence. He offered to play a wordless song, “Her Joy Was Complete”. We’d spend hours exploring different fields beyond our haven. Some looked prettier than others. The landscape, though captivating, ceased to be our focus; our gazes gravitated elsewhere.

Wary at first, I learned to trust again. It was not hope anchored in a person or a full moon, but a trust that things will work out in the end. Because to love is to be vulnerable, and love is a choice—a risk, sacrifice, and commitment. Besides, things just felt right. I could be truly myself. The once stranger became my best friend, then lover, and after two years, the field was no longer empty.

Aware that a looming condominium would consume a significant portion of the field, I would occasionally climb the slopes, listening to my own echoes. They seemed to affirm that I’ve found real love.

Acceptance unfolded as the realisation dawned—things change, and that’s okay. The moon, much like life, doesn’t remain constant.

At twenty-four, I still revisit the now-transformed field, now a home for future generations. I’m reminded that we’re not too different after all.