I write about vampires.
They say that to write well, you must write what you know. Many have mirthfully and even lovingly referred to me as a vampire. I always duck my head coyly and never bother to deny it.
There is a mystique to this title, and a verity in it as well. I am not quick to cast it off.
But there is someone who calls me something else, and this one knows me deeply.
My daughter calls me Moon Dancer.
I’ve never been a fan of the day. Even as a little girl, I felt there was something so pompous about the sun, so showy and pushy. It was selfish, the sun. It stole the spotlight and shoved real beauty into the background.
I would hide away and while away until the sun finally got tired of its bullying.
Then I would creep to a window or step outside – and smile.
An entire universe revealed itself; stars, planets, darkness.
The contrast of purple, indigo, midnight, and black against the pulsing twinkle of distant possibilities left me breathless.
I laughed out loud sometimes. As a child, I reached my little hands up and clutched at the endlessness, delighting in the light year pixie dust. Nothing blinded me. It only shared and entertained and pleased.
I dream at night, but not in sleep. I look up, and I imagine, and I wonder.
I always have.
My daughter calls me Moon Dancer because I come alive when the sun goes down. After twilight has faded into the sable shades of infinity, I breathe.
In the forever – and on the moon.
– Heather Killough-Walden