How Far It Travels

“You think we’ll ever go to the moon?”

“You mean again?”

Past adventures danced in her mind. It wasn’t quite autumn yet, but she could tell from the vibrance of the leaves that it was coming. He told her it was impossible to notice such things. She told him of the mantis shrimp and how the cones in it’s eyes allowed the animal to see more colors than any human could ever dream of, even him.

“No, I mean us.” She knew that he knew what she meant, but clarified anyway.

“Like on vacation?”

He was a the smug type. Arrogant. The kind that would smile as you explained something, as though you only knew half of the true story. A real pain in the ass. Against all reason, she continued to love him.

“I don’t know.”

They had become resigned to the apartment. It was built some time in the last four decades- but which one she could not be sure. All she knew was that it felt old. It made her feel old. And small.

People were not vacationing on the moon. She knew that. He would say he knew that even better. Still, she stared up at the sky through the smudged kitchen window, drying freshly steamed mugs from the top drawer of the dishwasher. It was one of their last functioning appliances.

“Sure, why not. When we’re old?”

The real tragedy was that he would never understand. Not her, not the world, not his motivations- nothing. He assumed he knew it all, and that knowledge was a fixed destination. Once you arrived, there was nothing more to see. In his mind, he championed that mountain long ago. Even as the world changed around him. Even as she changed.

“Sooner, maybe.”

Her voice was soft. Almost mournful. It was the cawing of a dove in the dim Sunday morning light before anyone woke. It was the hushed trickle of a stream, intent on becoming a river. It was more than it ever let on. It was her voice.

“Yeah, ok.”

She was an anomaly to him, at first. Not yet another hill to be conquered, like his other pursuits, but a curious invitation. Her manner of thinking enticed him, hinting at truths he had not yet uncovered. She did not know the answers herself, but always pointed him toward more questions. It was charming for a time.

“Ok.”

There, in that tiny apartment, they had become lost. This, of course, was not due to a lack of recognizable surroundings. Lamps were still lamps. Regrettably stained couches had not been forgotten, only covered. Still, the space they shared for an amount of time neither could quantify exactly became foreign. They no longer recognized themselves or each other. But, as all who become lost do inevitably, they clung to the familiar. Taking out the trash. Bathing the dog. Grocery shopping.

“I think I’m gonna read for a while.” He concluded, lifting himself from the dining room chair. In her silence she acknowledged several things. He was never going to bring the dishes from the table, they had become strangers, and she was unhappy.

Was there nothing more? He would say there is always more, but you had to be sensible. She was tired. Tired of the guardrails that came with living a comfortable life. A normal life. In her bones she knew she was not yet too old.

Most people are afraid of dying. Most people. As she stood at the window, drying out the last mug from the dishwasher, her eyes transfixed by the light of the moon, she imagined it. Her last moments. Would it take her by surprise and she would die scrambling in vain, hoping to survive? Perhaps it would be gentler. It might come in her sleep once she’d gone to bed, after thousands of nights drying dishes just like tonight.

Breathing in deeply, she leaned forward and flicked the switch, darkening the kitchen. Her pupils dilated taking in the radiance of that distant surface hanging in the vacant sky. Feeling reverence for the only connection to the sun any of us have throughout the night. It was as though the moon was staring back. It glowed. It was alive. That quiet comfort in the darkness had been there for her all along, but she never quite understood what it was saying. Not until tonight.

The neighborhood was still. The scalloped white vinyl privacy fences erected around featureless patches of grass divided the world into ‘your space’ and ‘mine.’ The lawns were mowed seemingly in unison, every Saturday morning. “Most people are afraid of dying.“ she whispered to herself.

She was. Was. Standing in the kitchen, in the shadows of her former life, as the moon beamed down upon her, she understood the moon more clearly than ever. It wasn’t dying she was afraid of- but living. Living wrongly. Living too selfishly. Living without a care in the world. The outside world had become too frightening, too violent, too unpredictable.

The warmth of the steamed mug in her hand was starting to fade and a pit started tumbling in her stomach. As the light from a distant star, which ensured all living beings had any chance at existence, bounced off the moon and into her heart, the words became clear.

“The sun still shines, even at night.”

There was an ember there, waiting to be fanned. Not dead yet. Not too old yet. She glanced over her shoulder at her husband through the archway to their living room. “Living room.” She repeated in her mind. The worlds felt hollow and ridiculous given what how they had spent the last decade.

Tugging at the frayed stitching on the hem of her shirt, she eyed a handsome countertop device that offered more promise than cleaning. It had been reserved for use in the morning only and was an essential part of their daily life. The coffee machine. The bitter taste was a thrifty staple of their lives. No need to spend on frivolous things like sugar and creamer.

It reminded her of college days, when she forced herself to gulp the biting flavor, cramming for tests. And later for finals. And later for work. And later just to keep her eyes open driving to the grocery store. But never at night. The night was for sleeping, or catching up on sleep. That was before she heard the moon. “Life is now. My life is happening right now.” She hissed.

She opened the cupboard, snatching out a filter and a bag of coffee grounds before whipping them into the machine and powering it on. She could turn this around. She could make something of herself. Everything could change. “It will.“

And when the time came to face the last thing every being on this planet does, she would be ready. She will be alright. She will be happy because she will have lived.