Writing, Reading, and Smiling . . . It's Contagious.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

"The Moon Does Not Rise Tonight"

Hello, how are you today?

Well, besides battling ants this week (the bread is now hidden in the oven) and buying 392 bars of soap yesterday (it's a long story), I've been swamped with artwork, digitizing and such. As I was working this week, the image of a train kept returning to my thoughts. I've also been haunted by the moon for the past month. No, I'm not losing my mind (that happened a long time ago). I've been trying to capture photos of our only satellite for the past month.

What have I discovered? 
My camera needs more zoom.

What do you get when you cross the moon with a train?
Read further.

"The Moon Does Not Rise Tonight"

3/30/10  Moon through a Cherry Tree
The moon does not rise tonight.

The black sky peeps through the blinds' broken slats and settles upon the nightstand beneath the window. Darkness creeps over the illuminated clock and slithers to the hand flung over the side of the bed. Fingers wriggle from its grasp and  I recall that old class photo--you with your trumpet and bow tie and me with my sad brown eyes and ashen face. Remember the song you wrote for me? Da-di-da-something. Something. I have forgotten the melody. My hand brushes over the other side of the bed. The sheets are cold and unwrinkled.

The moon must not rise tonight.

I drove to those lonely tracks tonight in that rusty blue and white pickup. I waited silently, patiently for that long, mournful whistle. I ate a package of marshmallow bunnies and wiped sugary fingers on cracked leather seats. I was ten minutes early.

I opened the plastic grocery bag again. A tin of cinnamon rested alone in the bottom. Do you know how expensive cinnamon is now? Can you imagine how much we would have spent that first Christmas? We made all of those ornaments of spice and applesauce and there were so many we couldn't hang them all. The tree looked like a bulging brown upside-down sugar cone.

The whistle blew and I opened the door with its creaky hinges. Feet scurried over the soggy moss carpeting the ditch along the tracks. As I was about to lay myself upon the cold, vibrating metal, a car rumbled toward me from the opposite direction. I seem to be too late for most everything.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Hours seem as minutes in the darkness. A soft light steals through the crisscrossed blinds and a warm drop of brine spills onto a musty pillow.

The moon has risen tonight.


As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood,
drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.


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