After the Moon

We kids find everything new and novel, but often not to our contentment; on Mid-autumn night, we sit in the courtyard, expecting the moon to come up but, after a long while of waiting, it isn't. We move back to the middle room of the house and, drawing the bamboo curtain down, plead with Grandma to tell stories. Grandma is a good story-teller; she tells one and we want another ... and suddenly, she says:
"The moon is coming in."
We turn to look and, sure enough, it has climbed into the bamboo curtain. Slowly and quietly, it is slipping in and showing up in the full-length mirror in front of the window: it turns out that the moon has legs, walking up to the checked curtain, presenting itself first in a whitish line, then in a crescent and, as it is climbing further on in the mirror, it becomes a full circle. We are all delighted, but hold our breath for fear that it might be the shadow of dust and get blown away with a slight breath. Along the curtain the moon is still climbing, losing its fullness bit by bit, until it is gone altogether, leaving the blank mirror standing there and a disappointment in our hearts.
Grandma says:
"It's gone, because it' s in a hurry; go and look for it outside."
We come swarming out and find it right in the yard, but it is no longer a full circle. The yard is flooded with whitish light, like jade, like silver, outshining lantern light. In the middle of the yard stands that thick laurel, with well-spaced branches and leaves. Though it is not in blossom, it is laden with buds. Not knowing where the full circle has gone, we move up to the laurel, wondering if its buds are not metamorphosed from stars; looking upward, we find there are fewer stars than usual in the sky. But the moon overhead is much larger and rounder, and in it there is something very clear that catches our eye.
"Grandma, what is it that is up there in the moon?"
I inquire.
"A tree, my child." Grandma answers.
"What tree?"
"A laurel."
We look at one another and soon we sense as if a waft of something in the air is pulsing just behind us and, when it reaches the top of our hair, we begin to have a barely perceptible itchy feeling; we seem already in the moon and no doubt the laurel in it is the one standing in the yard.
Grandma looks at us, smiling:
"My silly children, you know, there is someone living up there."
"Who?" We are amazed.
"Change." Grandma says.
"And who is Chang'e?"
"A girl."
Oh, a girl. In the moon the ground must be paved with silver and the walls laid with jade, I guess. The one worthy of living in such a wonderful place must he a beautiful girl.
"Can she compare with my third sister?"
"She is just as beautiful as your sister."
My sister's eyes gleam with a smile.
"Ah, the moon is mine!"
Third Sister is the most beautiful of us all and our admiration for her is called forth. Seeing her excited with high glee, we are possessed by a sense of envy. We begin quarreling, each claiming that the moon is his or hers.
Grandma comes out from the room with a pot of sweet wine and, filling a small cup for each of us, says:
"Children, look into your wine cups and you have each got a moon in it."
We look into our cups and indeed there is a small full moon quivering in it. We hold it in our hands, trying to keep it still. A slight stir of the fingers will set it quavering like ripples disturbed, evoking compassion on our part. We drink it up and the moon has now gone down to our hearts.
Grandma says:
"The moon belongs to every one of you. It hasn't left yet. Go and look for it again."
We become more curious about it and start looking for it around the yard. Oh, how incredible! It hasn't left, indeed. We find it in the grape leaves, on the porcelain plant pots and on the edge of Grandpa's spade. Our interest aroused, we go on looking for it outside the yard. Outside there is a small stream, its clear water running over a large stretch of clean sand. The sand under water, not as coarse as it looks during the day, glitters with silver. We run across the sandy beach to the edge of the stream. My brother, running to the upper bend, cries with delight:"The moon is here!"
Almost at the same moment my sister cries at the lower bend:"The moon is here!"
I am drawn to both places and in both places I find the moon in the water. Running from the upper bend to the lower one, I see the moon in the water along the whole length of it. When we look up toward the sky, I happen to see the tiny moon in the eyes of my brother and sister. Then it must be in my own eyes also, I guess. Ah, there are so many moons in so many places: so long as you wish to see it, it comes for you to see.
We sit on the sandy beach and, scooping up the fine sand with our hands and intrigued by the silvery reflections of the moon, I ask:
"Can you tell me what the moon is?"
"The moon is the thing I ask for." My brother says.
"The moon is something good." My sister says.
I agree with them. Just as Grandma says, it belongs to us, every one of us. Then again we look up at the moon. It is shedding whitish light, up in the sky. Suddenly it occurs to me that, since the moon is ours, the vast expanse of the sky is also ours: isn't the moon the seal mark we've just impressed in the sky?
We feel fulfilled in our search for the moon.
And then drowsiness seems to be taking effect on us; seated on the sand nestling against each other, we sleep a short sweet sleep.