De pequeña estaba convencida de que la luna me seguía a todas partes. Cada noche, al caminar por las calles de mi barrio o al viajar en el carro con mi familia, levantaba la vista y ahí estaba ella, redonda y luminosa, como un farol personal que me escoltaba en silencio. Si corría, parecía moverse conmigo; si me escondía bajo un árbol, la veía asomarse entre las ramas, paciente, como si me vigilara. Esa certeza me llenaba de seguridad: la luna era mi amiga fiel, mi guardiana nocturna.
Recuerdo una noche en particular, cuando mi madre me llevó al malecón. El aire olía a sal y las olas golpeaban con fuerza las piedras. Yo señalé la luna y le dije con orgullo: “Mamá, ¿ves? Ella siempre me sigue, nunca me deja solo”. Mi madre sonrió con ternura, pero no me contradijo. Quizás entendió que aquella fantasía era demasiado valiosa para arrancarla de golpe.
Pasaron los años y en la escuela comenzaron a enseñarnos sobre el sistema solar, los planetas y los movimientos de la Tierra. Fue entonces cuando descubrí que la luna no me seguía a mí, sino que giraba alrededor de nuestro planeta, obedeciendo leyes invisibles de gravedad y tiempo. Aquella revelación me dejó perpleja. Me sentí engañada, como si me hubieran quitado un secreto que me pertenecía. La luna no era mi compañera personal, sino un satélite que compartía con millones de personas.
Al principio me dolió. Era como perder a una amiga imaginaria. Pero poco a poco comprendí que la verdad no le restaba belleza. Al contrario, la hacía aún más fascinante. Saber que la luna influía en las mareas, que había sido testigo de la historia de la humanidad, que inspiraba poetas y enamorados en todos los rincones del mundo, me hizo verla con un respeto nuevo. Ya no era solo mi luna, era la luna de todos, y eso la hacía más grande.
Hoy, cuando camino de noche y levanto la vista, sonrío al recordar aquella niña que creía ser seguida por un farol mágico. Me reconozco en su inocencia y en su capacidad de maravillarse. Y aunque sé que la luna no me sigue, todavía me gusta imaginar que, de alguna manera, sigue cuidando de mí. Porque las creencias de la infancia, aunque se rompan, nunca desaparecen del todo: se transforman en recuerdos que nos enseñan a valorar la mezcla de ingenuidad y descubrimiento que nos hace humanos.
Así aprendí que crecer no significa perder la magia, sino aprender a verla desde otra perspectiva. La luna ya no me sigue, pero sigue iluminando mis noches, y eso basta para recordarme que incluso las verdades científicas pueden convivir con la poesía de la vida.
Créditos: Traductor de Google.
ENGLISH
When I think about my childhood, I clearly remember a belief that stayed with me for years and that, as I grew up, I discovered wasn't true. It's curious how those childhood illusions become part of our identity, and how the moment they shatter forces us to see the world with different eyes.
As a child, I was convinced that the moon followed me everywhere. Every night, as I walked through the streets of my neighborhood or traveled in the car with my family, I would look up and there she was, round and luminous, like a personal lantern silently escorting me. If I ran, she seemed to move with me; if I hid under a tree, I would see her peeking out from among the branches, patient, as if watching over me. That certainty filled me with security: the moon was my faithful friend, my nightly guardian.
I remember one night in particular, when my mother took me to the boardwalk. The air smelled of salt and the waves crashed against the rocks. I pointed to the moon and said proudly, “Mom, see? She always follows me, she never leaves me alone.” My mother smiled tenderly, but she didn't contradict me. Perhaps she understood that this fantasy was too precious to be abruptly shattered.
Years passed, and at school, we began to learn about the solar system, the planets, and the Earth's movements. It was then that I discovered the moon didn't follow me, but rather revolved around our planet, obeying invisible laws of gravity and time. That revelation left me perplexed. I felt deceived, as if a secret that belonged to me had been stolen. The moon wasn't my personal companion, but a satellite I shared with millions of other people.
At first, it hurt. It was like losing an imaginary friend. But little by little I understood that the truth didn't diminish its beauty. On the contrary, it made it even more fascinating. Knowing that the moon influenced the tides, that it had witnessed the history of humanity, that it inspired poets and lovers in every corner of the world, made me see it with a new respect. It was no longer just my moon; it was everyone's moon, and that made it even greater.
Today, when I walk at night and look up, I smile remembering that little girl who believed she was being followed by a magic lantern. I recognize myself in her innocence and her capacity for wonder. And although I know the moon doesn't follow me, I still like to imagine that, somehow, it continues to watch over me. Because childhood beliefs, even when shattered, never truly disappear: they transform into memories that teach us to value the blend of naiveté and discovery that makes us human.
That's how I learned that growing up doesn't mean losing the magic, but rather learning to see it from a different perspective. The moon no longer follows me, but it still illuminates my nights, and that's enough to remind me that even scientific truths can coexist with the poetry of life.
Credits: Google Translate.
