Fly Me to the Moon

Fly Me to the Moon

Len placed the sliced cremini mushrooms one by one into the blistering buttered frying pan, arranging each close without touching until they formed a sizzling aromatic mosaic. He turned to the counter and broke three eggs expertly into a silver bowl, whipped them with a fork into a creamy golden tunnel, and poured them over the mushrooms to create a perfect yellow moon. He topped it with shredded cheddar and popped the whole skillet into the oven to bake under the broiler. Precisely two minutes later, Len slipped his hand into his quilted oven glove, pulled out the pan, folded the omelette and slipped it onto a rose painted plate. Steam rose from the golden mushroom-pocked half moon, curving up into the morning light.

Len placed the plate onto a wooden tray and carried the tray upstairs and into his father’s bright bedroom. The curtains were never closed, the window always open a few inches for fresh air, and the gaunt wispy-haired old man was ever silent and sleeping. A severe stroke had left Armand in a coma for months now and the chances of his ever waking lessened every day. Len set the tray on a small folding table by the bed and made a perfunctory check of his father’s medical supports: ventilator, monitors, IV bags, and catheter. His father lay still but functioning, like a timeless watch, and much less bother than he’d been before the stroke. Armand was the sunny sort of fellow that people gathered round and his son was the quiet type who often went unnoticed. In the absence of his father’s charm, Len began to shine with more pep and purpose as his life had fallen into a new but comfortable and well-oiled routine. He smoothed a stray wisp of hair off his father’s forehead and sat down to his breakfast.

Len placed a paper napkin on his lap and sliced off the corner of the omelette with the side of his fork, reminded that what looks like a half moon is really a quarter moon. He looked out the window to see the cows grazing in the pasture and the chickens pecking in their coop. He was satisfied with all he’d accomplished this morning: collected milk and eggs, watered animals and garden, and readied himself and his father for the day. His whole afternoon would be spent on the tractor tilling the back field. He found it gratifying to watch over his shoulder as the plow churned the soil and left dark earthy waves furroughed behind him. At that moment, the flavour of the sauteed mushrooms seemed pleasantly similar to the smell of the soil. For supper he would make himself a simple puree soup, blending fresh tomatoes and basil from the garden with the cream he’d skimmed from the morning’s milk.

Armand flew up and over his son who was still eating breakfast and slipped through the open slat of window, leaving his body in the bed. He laughed into the sky and sang Sinatra’s “Nothing But the Best” as he spiralled in flight over the old barn and the cows and the chickens and the half-furrowed field. Talley ho, off we go, who can wait another day. He flew down toward a strip of trees that made up a windbreak and dove through a thicket of spruce to scatter a chattering assembly of sparrows, then soared back up to race with them. You and me, out on a spree, let's get started right away. He flew up, higher than the birds as they swept sideways in their murmur, and lost himself in a huge wave of cloud. We'll visit a palace, and dine with the king…Nothing but the best is good enough for me.

Armand flew back down toward the lake, knowing a secret now that he hadn’t before he could fly. A select group of ladies of a certain age met for a weekly sunrise swim in an alcove of river birch a few miles west of town while the townsfolk were all in church. He could see them from a distance, six of them this Sunday morning, and swooped down closer. Their lovely laughter and wet bodies, cascading bosoms and adorable matching wrinkled cheeks, lifted his heart to levels of shameless excitement and joy he’d never quite reached in his wakeful body. He stayed while they played and dove into the water himself, winding through the reeds and rays of morning light that lit the bubbles and silt and the orange and blue tinted pebbles on the lake floor. He stayed until the ladies rubbed their shivering bottoms and breasts with thick towels and returned to their cars and bicycles and the mundane world of propriety.

Armand flew along the shore toward town and the white steeple of the church to wait for the one he spent his days with. He spent his evenings and early mornings with his son, who sat with him at supper and breakfast, and he slept in his body at night. Armand waited for those brief touches of care, like when Len’s fingers brushed his forehead this morning. He also waited for her, though she hadn’t touched him in almost twenty-five years. He could hear Anne’s voice apart from the others as they sang the closing hymn. Hovering above the small shady graveyard, he thought of when he would be buried there and shuddered. How soon, he wondered.

Armand flew to the front of the church as the chimes signalled the end of the ceremony. Anne was already walking down the steps. Not one to mingle and chat about the sermon or catch up on town gossip, she preferred her own company and thoughts on the morning’s message. Anne had lived as a nun for many years before she became chaplain at the hospital where Armand met her, when he brought his wife in with a fever and took her home with a diagnosis of lymphoma. He’d slipped into the tiny hospital chapel to hide his tears from Olivia and found Anne, dressed all in white and praying beneath the stained glass window, bathed in ethereal light. They’d talked into the night, or rather, he’d talked and she’d listened. He'd laid bare his soul to her and she’d held his face in her delicate hands and looked into his eyes with a love he’d never known. His wife lived another twenty years, and they’d never spoken again; even after Olivia died, he’d been too afraid to approach her. Even now, following Anne down the steps of the church, he felt like he was in the presence of an angel when he was near her.

Armand flew through the door of her home behind her, following her down the hall and into her spotless kitchen. Having followed her for months, he watched her every move with a reverent anticipation. She half filled the kettle and set it on the stove, put out a lilac painted tea cup, and then went into the sitting room to the turntable. Setting the needle delicately onto the vinyl record, she began to slowly sway to the scratchy dulcet tune. The summer wind came blowin' in from across the sea. It lingered there to touch your hair and walk with me. Armand swayed with her, so closely that he could feel the tension leave her body. Two sweethearts and the summer wind. This was always when she began to cry, without tears, only sadness quivering within her. I lost you, I lost you to the summer wind. He knew not what lover she mourned so he hoped and imagined it was him and wrapped his presence around her.

Anne knelt before her bed to say her nightly prayers. A fall full moon shone through the window, bathing her in other-worldly light. Armand was closer in his view of her than he realized, for she was not an angel—nor a witch, but a human who existed more naturally in the spirit world while cognizant of the fears and failings that held most people fast to the corporeal realm. Armand had had the spirit and courage to leave his body, yet he was still blind to her awareness of him. She had felt him following her every single day for months, his every thought and emotion penetrating her consciousness. She knew that if she spoke to him, if she let him know she knew he was there, he would wholly unleash his effusive and talkative nature and she preferred both peace and this yearnful and unintentionally self-restrained Armand. She also knew something else he didn’t, that he was fading, that he was being taken to the next place.

Anne rose uncommonly early the next morning, her old bicycle faintly rattling down the road toward Armand's farm while the full moon was still setting in the west. She whistled a tune as she glided through the darker shadows the trees made across the roadway. Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away. She breathed in the bittersweetness of the dark morning’s beauty and the loss she rode toward. She knew Armand would not want to go at first; he was even happier in a coma than when he’d been cheerfully awake, but she would help him transition. Once I get you up there, where the air is rarefied, we'll just glide, starry-eyed. I’ll be holding you so near, you may hear angels cheer. She left her bike against the fence and walked up the driveway. Len was milking the cow inside the barn as she passed it. The small rhythmic streams of milk pelting the sides of the metal pail reached her ears in the quietude. She went up the porch steps, soundlessly into the house, and upstairs into Armand’s room where he was still asleep.

Anne touched his face, and Armand's eyes opened for the first time in months. He couldn’t speak but his thoughts bubbled with amazement and joy into Anne’s mind. She told him how much she’d enjoyed dancing with him, how sad it was that they hadn’t more time together, but that she was there to help him go. When she said this last thing, his brightness dimmed and he went quiet. She watched his thoughts go to the small cold graveyard behind the church; she shook her head no. Anne put her hands on his soft crinkled cheeks and showed him the next place, opening the door. His soul stilled and his eyes closed. She watched him slip away into the splendor.

Anne waited as Len placed each folded omelette onto a rose painted plate and carried them steaming to the table. She visited him every Sunday after church so he would take a break on the holy day. She enjoyed quietly watching the young man cook with skill and flavour; he looked so much like his father. Armand’s favourite song sang into her mind. Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Len brought her a cup of tea and himself a coffee. Fill my heart with song, let me sing for ever more. The two sat silent and content together, each taking a bite of their breakfast.

“Did you know there is no such thing as a half moon?” he asked her.

She smiled and lied. “No, I didn’t.”