The Snail Who Carried the Moon

At the edge of a soft green garden, where the grass grew tall and the dew came each evening, there lived a small snail named Pim.

Pim had a shell the color of honey, and he liked to travel slowly. He was never in a hurry. Slow was his favorite way to be.

One night, as the sky turned the color of plums, Pim looked up and saw the moon resting low, round and pale over the far hedge. It looked so friendly there. It looked a little bit lonely, too.

"I think I'll go and say hello," Pim said to himself.

And slowly, so slowly, he began to climb the tallest stem of grass.

Up he went, past a sleeping ladybird who had folded her wings for the night. Past a raindrop still holding onto a leaf, round and shining like a tiny lantern.

"Where are you going, little snail?" the raindrop asked.

"Up to the moon," said Pim. "Slowly, slowly, all the way."

The raindrop smiled and slid gently down the leaf. And Pim climbed on.

The higher he went, the quieter the garden became. The wind grew soft as a breath. And there, at the very tip of the tallest stem, Pim stopped and looked up.

The moon was closer now. It was so big and so round that it filled the whole sky, spilling silver light across the garden below. Every leaf shone. Every petal glowed. And Pim, small honey-colored Pim, glowed too.

"Hello, moon," Pim whispered.

And it seemed to him, just then, that the moon leaned a little nearer. It seemed to rest, ever so gently, right upon the top of his round shell. Light and warm and calm.

Pim felt it there. He held very still. He was carrying the moon.

He did not need to go any farther. He had reached the top of everything. The whole soft night was spread beneath him, sleeping and safe, and he sat at the highest tip of the grass with the moon upon his shell.

"You are not lonely now," Pim said softly. "I will carry you a while."

And the moon shone warmer, the way a friend leans close.

Slowly, so slowly, the little snail began to climb down again. Down past the shining raindrop, quiet now. Down past the sleeping ladybird with her wings folded tight. The moonlight came down with him, resting on his shell all the way, warm as a small blanket.

Down in the cool grass, at the very bottom of everything, Pim found his favorite mossy stone. It was soft. It was still. It smelled of green and rain.

He tucked himself against it and pulled a little way into his honey-colored shell.

The moon was high above him again, round and gentle, watching over the whole soft garden. But a little bit of its light stayed with Pim, glowing warm inside his shell, the way a hello stays with you after a friend goes home.

Slowly, slowly, his eyes grew heavy. The grass breathed around him. The dew settled soft.

And the little snail rested, honey-warm and quiet, with a small piece of the moon glowing gently in his shell.