The Moon In The Sky

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have met an older, still living Lerion. What if he had the chance to see our world? After all the war and history, I think it would come down to this.

I can’t wait to get home. It’s been a long, hard day of work, and my arms have gotten so used to their repetitive motions that they don’t even ache anymore. A little part of me far in the back is worried about that. The drab, gray bench is the last running stretch before my shoddy, decrepit doorway, my soiled and stained carpet, and my bed. I round the side and plop down.

On the other side of the bench sits an old man, probably in his 60s or 70s. He’s still of impressive size and statue; taller than me, at least. He’s no giant, but he’s one of those strong old guys. He still has all his hair, and it’s combed back neatly. All the color’s been drained from it though, leaving no hint of what it once was. Still, it looks handsome, wholesome for the guy’s apparent years, even noble.

He’s got a squared jaw on broad shoulders, with big, manly hands resting on his knees. By the way he sits upright the only words that immediately come to mind are “old school.” This guy’s cut from a cloth they don’t make anymore. I really wonder why he’s in this neck of the woods.

The only thing…odd about the guy is how he’s craning his neck upwards to look at something. Like there was something just so amazing off in the distance that refused to let you glance away from it. And whatever it was, it was in the sky.

I look ahead, and see nothing. Just the same old buildings, the same old traffic lights down the street. The clouds are pretty I guess, but not otherwise noteworthy. The sky isn’t of outstanding color, just your typical twilight dimming. The sun is still out, but so is the moon over to one side. It is still small and pale, but clearly present and showing off all its texture.

I glance back to the guy. He’s wearing glasses, but they don’t seem to be overly thick, nor does he appear to be squinting. He might be admiring the scenery…but the more I look at him, the more I really doubt he’s an artist. Management? No, his simple sweater and khakis don’t imply such a salary. Shop owner? No, the vibe off the dude is way too…controlled for that. He looks so at ease but so much in complete dominion over himself; that can’t be faked. It’s like I’m sitting next to a war veteran that led D-Day. Or a guy who once climbed Everest. Or a lumberjack.

I’m sure he notices me. I feel acknowledged, as if my presence was, even if I personally have not been. It’s like knowing someone has entered the room; you haven’t bothered to greet them yet but you’re well aware they’re there. I don’t know if I’m intimidated or just confused, but I wait.

So there we sit, him staring off into the sky and me staring at him staring. Cars crawl by in the late-afternoon traffic and pedestrians amble on their way. But we say nothing, even as the blue overhead gets darker and the moon gets brighter.

“You did it,” he finally sighs.

I blink and start to open my mouth, leaning away as I struggle for reply.

“I saw the footage," he continues without me. "The fuzzy and colorless images of that rocky and desolate landscape. Of those men, bouncing around and not quite falling back down so quickly,” he speaks softly, never moving his gaze from the lonely satellite. “How the earth itself peeked out from the horizon. It was so unreal. And yet, no matter how much time has passed since, I cannot forget it like a mere dream.”

My hands open and close. I hate going to art shows and someone just spouts something so incredibly profound and then you’re just expected to chime in with something equally provocative. I’ve just got nothing. The moon landing was before I was even born; the only times I’d ever seen the footage was when it was referenced in other things; like MTV.

“Uh, yeah, man,” I finally stammer out. “It was a pretty big deal.”

I hate myself.

“I would have traded empires, you know,” he blinks, wiping away the subtle sheen that had been gathering on his pupils. “I would have given lifetimes, centuries of generations, just to walk up there. Just to hop around and even fall on my hands and knees.”

I just shut up. Old school is schooling me right now, and the only appropriate thing to do right now is listen.

I wait for him to go on. I can see by the flex in his jaws that he’s about to say more. By the slight wince in his eyes he’s not just looking anymore, he’s remembering. I brace myself. Whatever he is reliving in his mind’s eye right now, it is a tale. I wonder if this is what the Greeks felt right before Homer spoke.

Now he turns to look at me. His smile deepens and pulls more wrinkles on his face; the crow’s feet making his eyes sink. “Oh, how I tried.”

I slump, and my inner child buries his head back under the pillows. I guess that story is not for me right now. Still, I freeze my face to halt the growing frown. I consider nodding, as if in sympathy, but I quickly dismiss the thought. This isn’t the time for courtesies. This is, this is the onset of an epiphany? A revelation’s nigh?

He pulls off his glasses and holds them limply on his thigh, craning his face back up to the moon to let its pallid light bathe him. “I’ve fantasized what it must be like, to look up and see the earth as we now see the moon. And then, to be able to turn around and see everything else.”

With barely a sound he rises to his feet, bowing his head to slide his glasses back onto his face. At his full height, I notice the strength that his body once held, and the stature of a man who knew his own greatness. He glances once more to the bright orb high above, and gives another sigh. “I gave my life for that dream.”

He looks to me and all the pride in that body ebbs away for a moment. “But you did it, once. You actually went out there.” The aura of strength subsides, and instead there is just a sad, piteous curiosity. Not for himself, but towards what he now beholds. “What happened?”

He’s asking me. He’s asking me to respond. As if it was my responsibility. And I guess anyone should be able to, but I can’t. What am I supposed to blame? I got busy? Life got in the way? The excuses sound lame even as I conceive them. I’ve really got nothing. Was this the big point?

“I-“

But he’s already stepped up into the bus’s open doorway; I hadn’t even noticed its arrival. I stand up to follow him, but the shame glues my feet to the ground. I watch him from the windows as he takes a seat at the front, and then I notice that the whole side of the bus is empty. Maybe the whole thing is.

Where this man has been, and where he’s going, I am not to follow. And that, when I think upon it, really depresses me. But as I sit back down on the bench, letting the bus roll away, now I stare up to the sky and behold the shining moon.

We did go there. I guess that’s something, alright. As long as we don’t hide down here forever.

 

Author's Note

I usually proofread my works, however as always I'm sure there are typos and syntax errors. I appreciate any and all notices of that, and will work to correct those. If I haven't do know that I did acknowledge your notice and try implementing it, but found that it detracted from the effect I wanted and so omitted it.