Mujer de la Luna / Moon Woman
The moon has a face, but it is not one of a man.
The moon is a mujer, a woman.
I see her clearly for the first time in years of orbiting me. Two eyes. One nose. One pair of slightly parted lips. She rises quietly over the trees in Jay Ramirez’s yard and I perceive her.
How did I miss the allure of her face for so long?
Her radiance brightens the dark places of the barrio, even the ones where boys with spray paint cans begin their work or the chingonas get into their boyfriends’ lowriders or Manuel Lopez sits on his porch with his third Modelo.
Nights are never quiet on a weekend in the neighborhood. The teenage girls blast Kali Uchis out their windows while applying razor-sharp eyeliner. The kids are so excited for the weekend that they kick around soccer balls into each other’s yards. Madres finish cooking dinner in their floral aprons. The moon watches.
There are never noise complaints. Music, loud talking, revving engines, and the occasional firework or gunshot (but who’s counting) create the symphony of the barrio on weekend nights. The moon illuminates the cars that can be seen parked all down the street when someone hosts a party, from beat-up Ford F-150s to suped-up Dodge Chargers. No one shows up empty-handed to the fiestas thrown by a different neighbor almost every weekend.
Even without a formal invitation, it’s not unusual to wander over to one of these gatherings to be offered beer and a plate of food. There is always enough for everyone. No walls or fences are telling me to keep out and that I’m not welcome. The gates to the backyards where the parties take place stay open offering a place to belong.
These parties can run until late at night when the younger children find chairs to curl up on and sleep while cumbia blasts from someone’s DJ cousin. The adults take turns with tequila shots. The women and men dance together in improvisation. All the while, the moon sees. She wishes for a merrier world where there is always an open gate and there is always a beer and a plate of food to be offered to a stranger.
Sarah Chavera Edwards is a Chicana writer based in Phoenix. She has been published numerous times in established publications and literary magazines including The Washington Post, Teen Vogue, Newsweek, and others. Her creative work can be found in The Dewdrop, The Nasiona, and she won the 2021 Creative Nonfiction Prize through The Roadrunner Review. Her writing focuses on Latino issues, mental health, and memoir.
