I once swore I saw a demon standing by my bed. It was shaped like a lion but made entirely of light. It bounded across the room, its fiery mane streaming backward toward its long, rope-like tail. There was a ringing in my ears, the sound of static, then another heartbeat falling closely after mine. It dove into the dresser drawer, where I kept my diary beneath a pile of balled up socks. Later, I wondered if it was a trick of the eyes, a misperception caused by some happenstance of the morning light. For months afterward, I checked the drawer each day before school, in hopes of finding proof of that strange miracle.

My mother always told me that there was a man in the moon, and as I child I took that to mean that the moon itself was a man, albeit a strangely shaped one. If I looked long enough, I could convince myself that I could make out a winking eye, a pointed nose, and a pair of upturned lips.

I used to wonder what it must have been like to have strangers land a spaceship on top of your face. I hoped they took care not to poke him in the eye, and if they did by mistake that they at least had the courtesy to apologize.

Apologies meant everything to me back then, at a time when they were seldom found, like a sock that disappears into the hidden depths of the drying machine. Such small things, really, but what is one sock without the other? Apologies were something I was owed but would likely never receive.

On nights when I was sent to my room for yet another reason, some question I had that my parents said was disrespectful, some comment I made that was considered impertinent for a child to make, I’d stare up at the sky and wonder if the man in the moon ever felt lonely, or if his strange existence precluded the need for others entirely.

I remember my father telling me about the Big Bang, how every atom of the universe was balled up so tight that it had no other option but to spring forth. So I figured that if the man in the moon ever had parents, they would be galaxies away by now, drifting even further day by day.

Maybe he missed them, and the feeling he had when he was surrounded by everyone he ever knew and loved. Or maybe his final resting place was his escape. He was free to do as he pleased, free from the nonsense that so often comes with dealing with other people. Out of sight, out of mind. No need to wait for an apology that would never come.