The Moon Does Not Rise Tonight

COPYRIGHT © 2010 J.E. Seanachaí

All rights reserved.

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

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
3/30/10 Moon Through a Cherry Tree 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.
 2

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.

Typeface by Roger White