By The Light of The Moon
“Who am I?” Emma says, looking towards him.
“I don’t know Emma… I don’t know,” he says.
“Am I the same as I’ve always been?” She asks.
He stares into those deep, cavernous green eyes of hers. From them the moon reflects, casting rings around her pupils. He has always loved her eyes, how they can tell such stories, such immutable pain. “You know you’re not, Emma.”
“Just a little bit?”
“Not at all.” He shakes his head.
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, I just wanted to be normal. That’s all anybody ever wants.” Slowly she wipes a tiny tear from the corner of her eye. “You understand, you have to understand.”
“I try to,” he says.
Sitting on the porch he looks out onto the landscape, into the fields and hills that remain dimly lit in the moon’s silvery cadence. He wonders what will happen to his view of this place, will it always remain the same, will the hills and the trees always instill comfort? He doubts so, change is all around. Emma is here, unrecognisable, truly different.
“What will you do now?” Emma asks.
“I’m not sure. Things can’t remain the same way, though I know that needn’t be said. Life it is just so mysterious, unpredictable. But I suppose that’s what makes it rich, joyful.”
“And shit…” she says.
“And shit…” he replies, slowly nodding.
He remembers when Emma was the spark of his life. He remembers all those moments growing up together, unbridled fun, joyous obliviousness. Even more so, he remembers all the moments that brought it crashing down, tumbling, falling from grace. A tear comes to his own eye. He lets it sit there for a moment, feeling it, before wiping it away with his sleeve. Looking at the tiny walls that surround his modest home, he can’t help but think it has all been for nothing, that all the years are somehow meaningless, nothing but dust particles being swept around in a chilly winter’s breeze. He grips Emma’s hand within his own. “Things will be okay,” he whispers. “Eventually they will be, that’s how the world works.”
She nods. She doesn’t believe him. “The moon will always be the same…” she says. “At least there’s that.”
“At least there’s that,” he says.
She pulls him close. And in the cold of the night, they sit there, both wishing how different things could and should be, both wishing the world itself was a much more forgiving place.