Stories from The Moon / Cuentos de la Luna

I will tell you my stories now before they ferment and turn fizzy. I do not like my stories sour. Picture me, around thirteen years old. Long checkered skirt in forest green and navy blue. Green vest, white polo. Buttoned all the way up. Zoom out and look at the room. Wooden bunk beds, wooden wardrobes, wooden floor. I am kneeling beside my bed. That one, the one with the blue teddy bear. Those are my friends: Lina, Martita, Edna. They are waiting to hear my stories too. It is past bedtime. The nuns have retired to the East wing of the boarding school. We have Tesco waffles warming on the heaters by the window. My friends are not very interested in reading but they know that by listening to my stories, it is like they are  reading with their ears. 

I remember back in Primary school, in Mexico, I would tell scary stories to my friends. We would sit on the lawn during recess and I would tell them about the woman I made up who lived in my walk-in closet. I would tell them about how I saw La Llorona sitting patiently on the trees closest to my mother’s house. “When it gets dark, you can see this bright white fabric swaying with the branches.” I made the stories so believable that to this day, I do not feel comfortable standing in walk-in closets. 

Storytelling runs in my family. When my mother was a kid, she would make up plays and perform them with her two sisters. She would write down the program and make the tickets herself. One ticket per adult, no one got to bring a “plus one.”  She also told scary stories. Her favorite, she has told me, was the story she made up about a man who died at their home before they moved in. As those stories go. She would tell her friends that this old man would come at night and make the sign of the cross on her forehead while she was pretending to sleep in her bed. I still remember the long, grayish index finger with the blue fingernail.  At this point in the story, she would push her fringe to the side and show her friends the mark this old man had made on her forehead. They would be terrified.

My mother would smile knowing that she got this scar when she fell from her high chair when she was a baby. My grandma was scared because there was blood but the doctor said it would heal, and it did. They did not know my mother would take poetic license over her scar and retell the story differently. Let’s go back to that room in Ireland. 

Every night, when the nuns went to bed, my friends and I would bring snacks and I would tell them stories about the family who lived in the garden. They were very small. The five of them. They were polite and shy. I would tell them that the mother always held some type of bread in a white handkerchief. She was into embroidery. “She’s offered it to me, more than once,” I would say in a low voice. “But every time I’m about to take it, a nun walks by and they leave.” We knew that our nuns were not the nicest of creatures. It was understandable that the family who lived in the garden would avoid them too. I would tell them about the crumbs I would find inside my shoes or inside the pockets of my bathrobe. Clearly a sign that the mom from the garden had tried to deliver the piece of bread. 

I would tell them about where the flower arrangements went after our daily morning mass. “They take them to the kitchen and they grind them and grind them until there’s only flower powder left. That’s what the nuns drink for their tea.” There was no clearer explanation as to why we were not allowed to drink their tea.  “The flowers are put in holy water so by the time mass is finished, they’re full of holy water and then the nuns absorb it. That’s why they sing so well too.” The nuns are coming. They heard us. I will tell you more stories tomorrow.