Four Moons More: The Table and the Stable
Four Moons More: The Table and the Stable
Continued from Berta's Table
The moon hung low above the sleeping earth, round and listening. Within the dream’s hush, time folded like linen, one place becoming another, one breath softening into the next.
The stable glowed beneath Selene’s silver, gleaming wings, its beams stretching into a long, weathered wooden table. Candles trembled at their edges; straw softened into benches. The manger rested at the center, holding the quiet promise.
Young Mary sat there, silent, hands curved around her growing belly and within the heart of both stable and table.
Around her gathered the women who carried The Sacred and The Scarlet - the holy and the human.
Therese placed a single red rose beside Mary’s hands, like her, small, perfect, unblemished. Rita rested her scarred yet open palms near Mary’s, blessing the space for every wound. Marietta sat humbly, eyes shimmering with gratitude for being seen even if she was small and ordinary. Lilith leaned back opposite Mary, her silence neither defiant nor ashamed, only whole and fierce.
Selene perched on the rafter above, golden gaze steady, wings folded. She watched without choosing sides, her silver threads weaving moonlight around every candle and shadow.
Lior lingered by the stable’s threshold, the table’s end. He stood, a young man bearing old weights, feeling the cool night air envelope him. Mary’s tender silhouette spoke not of his pain, but of innocence that endures. Something unseen shifted: a forgiveness given freely, costing nothing. He breathed it in, then stepped out into the night, down his separate path, his steps lighter than before.
Asha wandered from the table’s glow, drawn by dreamlight down a narrow hall of moonlight. She paused at the edge, listening to the women’s quiet rhythm. Therese’s rose, Rita’s steady hands, Marietta’s gratitude, Lilith’s untamed stillness, all echoed her own fragile beginnings. She touched the table’s edge once, then turned the other way, carrying reclaimed peace down her own path, holidays reborn, aches softened.
Their paths crossed briefly in dreamlight, man and woman, neither diminished, kindling softly like the hush between lullaby verses. No words passed, yet hope stirred between them - a sense of family.
When dawn came, they woke, all in their own beds, under their own roof.
The moon had turned once more, three remain now, though none recall its passing. Between dream and day, hardness loosened; guarded places breathed. Beneath grief and memory, new life took hold.
What belonged only to the night lingered through waking hours, steady as heartbeats, patient as the sea’s return.
Somewhere, table and stable remained one, Selene above, candles burning low, space always left for whoever might yet arrive.
Three moons now… and hope stirs within every open heart -
And then a faint memory, a whisper echoing from their dreams under the four moon night; "Soon - very soon....a knowing rings in the hearts of those willing to listen for a mother's love beaconing a child to come home, where it is safe and warm. "
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