Late last night as I was walking home, I ran into God. I was following my feet down the empty campus paths, peering up at the sky so black and vast, at the gentle smudge of moon. I was thinking of home – of last night's dishes still soaking in the sink, of the cat still meowing to be fed – when I slammed directly into his leg.
He was huge, as tall as a school bus turned on its end. He was sitting there, on the edge of the library roof. Legs swinging like two massive tree trunks. He must have noticed me peering up at his round pink face and lopsided ears, because he grinned, and wiggled his toes.
"Hello, you." he said. He leaned down until he was bent almost in half, his face level with mine, his opalescent eyes unblinking. The tip of his long snowy beard flopped into the fountain.
"Hello," I said, "not to be rude, but I think your beard's getting wet."
He blinked twice. He tugged his dripping beard from the fountain and wrung it out with both hands. "Every time..." he muttered.
"Excuse me," I said, "you're God, right?"
He scratched his head. "Perhaps I am. I have trouble remembering things like that these days."
"I'd best be on my way." I said. "After all, the cat has yet to be fed and last night's dishes are still sitting in the sink. "
"Wait." he said, "Watch this."
And he plucked the moon from the sky with his forefinger and thumb. Licking his lips, he placed the moon in his mouth and crunched it down like a translucent chocolate chip cookie.
"Now you've done it." I said, as the ground began to shake. And the tides stood still, and the seasons zipped by, one after the other - winter spring summer fall, winter spring summer fall.
He shrugged. He brushed a leaf from the top of his head and reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts. He pulled out a clear plastic bag, full to the brim with moons, each one glowing gently.
He wriggled his long fingers down into the package. Plucking one out, he dusted it off and tossed it into the air. As it sailed across the sky, it fizzled and shook like a bath bomb meeting tub water. Stars popped into life in the moon's wake, raining a soft dusting of yellow powder down on my head. It landed in the black hole the old moon had left behind, cooing as it nudged its way into its new home.
God giggled. "Did you like it?"
"Why are you here?" I asked, swiping moon dust from my hair.
He shrugged. "Sometimes it's lonely sitting up in the sky."
"Oh." I said. "I'm lonely too, sometimes."
"I know." And he grabbed another moon, nibbling it thoughtfully. "You'd like these." He said. Reaching down into the very bottom of the bag, he pulled put the smallest moon. "Here."
It was no bigger than an orange, and fit snugly in the palm of my hand. It was perfectly cold and perfectly round. It hummed slightly, and smelled like the detergent I keep beneath the kitchen sink.
Through a mouthful of moon, God mumbled, "Try it. Tastes like chalk and rocket dust and pop rocks and - something else." He took another bite, running his tongue over his teeth. "I know. I know." He sighed. "It tastes like the feeling you get when you're driving home through the city late at night listening to some really good tunes. You know?"
I looked up at him. He was sucking moon dust from his fingertips. "Why are you here?" I said. He grinned. He had white moon rock stuck between his two front teeth. "You never answered me," I said. "When I asked for a sign, last year." He nudged at the chunk of rock with his tongue. "I did try praying," I insisted, "once or twice at least. But I never heard back. Not a whisper."
He scratched his head. "I thought I answered you. I meant to give you blueberries for breakfast and sturdy walking shoes and once, a feeling of completeness. But maybe I forgot." His beard drooped. "I'm forgetting lots of things these days."
He stood on the edge of the roof and stretched his gangly legs. Reaching up, he grabbed hold of a low hanging asteroid. "Try the moon," he said, "you'll like it. It's made of the same stuff they use to paint the Pearly Gates." He flashed a chalky grin, and hauled himself into the sky, climbing the asteroids like a ladder. He grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared.
I walked home with the moon fizzing in my pocket. I fed the cat. I put away the clean dishes and loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. I took the moon out of my pocket and placed it on the kitchen counter. I crouched down until we were face to face, narrowing my eyes.
I crawled into bed and tried to sleep. Faintly, I could hear it rolling around downstairs, crashing into furniture and leaping from countertop to countertop. I thumped down the stairs and grabbed it. It tingled in my hand. I shoved it into the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink, slamming the door shut. It rattled softly, bumping against the door. The cold white glow illuminated my bare feet on the kitchen floor.
This morning, I opened the cupboard. The moon sat there, still and glowing. I cupped it in my hands. It was perfectly cold and perfectly round, but it didn't hum so much. Only vibrated, dull and low. I still haven't taken a bite. I don't know that I want to. I'm scared that it won't taste like chalk or rocket dust or pop rocks or driving home through the city late at night listening to some really good tunes.
I'm scared that it will.