Moon, Moon
By Elana Kloss
The wind rolls over the man's shoes and night falls on the playground.
“Moon, moon!” A girl points to the sky.
The bright globe presses out from the grey and the man shifts on the bench.
It’s black and things get lost sometimes, but it doesn’t mean they’re not there.
The child smiles and jumps up and down.
“Moon, moon,” she repeats.
The man caps his pen and places his notepad beside him. A lady in plaid, presumably the girl’s mother, squats next to the child and starts jumping alongside her. Polka-dot socks and sneakers.
Up, down, up, down; the two of them pouncing. Their own show.
The little one spins circles in her skirt now. She becomes dizzy and falls.
“Moon, moon,” she says.
Laughter.
The man with the shoes, with the wind rolling over, beams at the darling display in front of him, then suddenly—a quick whip of thunder. The park begins to empty and the sky opens up and lets everything out. Wash. Drizzle. Splash.
Little feet scuttle from the slides and swings and toward the gravel path. Only a few remaining leaves brush their hurried legs. The man's notepad has become smeared wet and black blobs change shapes on the paper like clouds.
Moon, moon. It’s black and things get lost sometimes, but not right now. Right now, rain sets on freshly cut grass. Sits in peace. Music swirls from a passing car, and the moon cuts a bright, glowing shape overhead that lights the whole world. Moon, moon washes the thick air and cleans out the leftovers of today: a joke made, a half-finished “to-do,” a lost glove, a cry, a sigh, a tea stain on the board, a yes, a no.
“Moon, moon,” the man says quietly to himself in the rain. Like a meditation.
A small laugh from him, too.
Things are moving from today to somewhere else, someone else's tomorrow, where they will land and plant a new life when the sun rises again.
The rain tickles the wiry ends of his beard then clings like little hands.
Moon, moon. He smiles because it’s funny, it takes many words to say nothing, and only two to say it all. Two words to set things right. Sometimes, Moon, moon is all you need. When chaos rips through the day and pulls apart the ends that keep unraveling, Moon, moon will save you. Spilled coffee, sleepless nights, yelling neighbors, late meetings. Moon, moon. Missed calls, rotting herbs.
He imagines the sound of his own daughter's voice. Her brown curls bouncing down her face, and the way she used to say “yellow” before boys were cool and he was not.
Smiles.
He sinks further on the bench and allows the wet air to play down his clothes.
Things keep going and falling and you’re left without moments if you don’t see the moon. They crash and burn out, run you down, and down again. They’ll turn you inside out. And if you don’t look up, there is no moon. The ins and the outs, the firsts and the lasts, upping and downing, blocking and flowing, if you don’t stop, just for a second, the clock will spill.
His heart relaxes with each tree. Woosh. Every cloud, building, streetlight, or bird that surrounds him. And he thinks to himself, Moon, moon. Where presence and joy collide to form a moment so perfect that arms and hands reach down to brush the hair from your face and warm your cheeks. A pit a pat of rain.
Little empty swings jingle in the distance and he takes a breath, watching it form like a globe before blowing away into the damp world. Pleased and reenergized, he unsticks his legs and stands.
Lightness.
A finch takes his seat.
He finds the path home and strolls the long way. Each person that he passes wears a different face, a different hat, somehow, they are all familiar. The moon follows behind. When he reaches the door he turns to take a last look and embraces the scene that plays around him. For the first time in a very long time, he is part of it.
Moon, moon. He laughs.
It glimmers. Him, too.
THE END
Author Bio: Elana Kloss received a BFA in Fashion Design at Otis College of Art and Design and attended writing classes at UCLA, and Gotham Writers Workshop in New York. She was recently nominated for the James Kirkwood prize at UCLA and has had her work published in Literally Stories, Sortes, Angel City Review, Isele Magazine, Jimson Weed, and Cantos.