Ramin Hossaini
Moon-Rise
As a small child I used to scare myself senseless most nights before I fell asleep; and I’m sure that you did too. Remember the moans of hot water gurgling through pipes, the deep, muffled murmurings of voices from below the floorboards, remember the moon staring through the thin bedroom blinds. I longed for heavy velvet curtains so I could hide in absolute darkness. Can you recall the dragon’s head mask on a shelf near your grandmother’s linen closet, No? Perhaps your grandmother didn’t have one, but mine did; and every night I eyed that dragon suspiciously on my way to bed, secretly and delightfully, terrified.
I am so sorry if you didn’t know something of the same nature.
For that, my friend, was where fantasy began for me. As a slightly bigger child I lay in that same creaky house and snuggled with my hot water bottle as I read about Wonderland, Narnia, and then Middle Earth. This is a manipulated picture of the moon, and mist, and stars, and a dark, icy swamp, but seeing it I remember Edmund Pevensie alone with the White Witch, and think about Frodo and Sam in the Dead Marshes, and of course, I remember the dragon’s head that hung in the corridor outside my old bedroom.
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