Every morning she comes. A beautiful woman with hair as gold straw, a kind lady too, she brings light into everyone’s life, when she comes around though I tend to hide behind my mother, Earth, like a foolish child. We’re polar opposites, when I first saw her I figured she could never love me. My black jeans, with large holes in the knees-some times when they’re particularly large my mother calls them craters-, and boring grey shirt compared to her fiery red gown is practically peasant wear. My puffy, dusty grey hair, versus her beautiful waist length hair would lose a battle any day. Because of these reasons I tend to hide behind mother until she goes to bed, only then do I come out. Every night I draw pictures in the sky, once I drew an astonishing bear, another time I made a man wearing a rather stylish belt. Someday I wish to show her these. I didn’t think I’d ever get to show her them, never thought she’d want to see them. But one year she came up to me, she asked me about my art and I answered. Now every year, I get to see her. Every year we share two new things about ourselves, sometimes it’s not new, one year I told her that nothing but a century ago a group of nice fellas brought me a pretty flag that I carry in my pocket, and she told me that light years ago she was no brighter than the stars I use in my drawings. But the first time I met her she told me her name, Sun. I call her sunny. I told her my mother had given me the name Moon. She calls me M. Sometimes I see her, when I’m going to rest and she’s waking up. It’s times like those that remind me, maybe I am alone, but I will never be lonely.