Not My Moon
Lis Harrington
I wasn’t sure if her object permanence never quite developed or if she lost it at Mary and Bobs or the Bingo Hall. Replacing reality with two stones made of hyperbole and apathy, carried in her back pockets.
If you dropped them at the same time, the clink was indistinguishable. They could fall in unison – Olympic precision between these two bespeckled and smooth rocks.
Opening her left hand, palm down, with more rings than Midas – it dropped. She’d gasped, “We’ve NEVER had a winter like this, you wouldn’t believe it! The gully tree’s were creaking under the weight of the ice. I couldn’t even sleep, I was waiting for one to crash through the ceiling.”
“Is it as bad as the time your car doors froze shut in the driveway and you couldn’t get it started? I remember getting bit by that one.”
“That was nothing compared to this – it’s almost unnatural.”
Her right hand, with long nails she grew herself. Built from food which ‘didn’t need salt’ she
released the other.
“You just never mind. He didn’t mean anything by it. Jacky’s just old school.”
“Old school? I don’t think that’s the word I’d use to describe it.”
“What’s the word then?”
“Racist or rude or like actually shameful.”
“He actually grew up next to Fraser Rez, there’s nothing hateful in it. You know that’s not him
– he never got a degree like you. So, let’s just be kind to Jacky Dog.”
The clank of them always sounded the same whether they were on a pebble beach or her mint green bathtub, or Hill Top Diner on Thursdays. Plate or pie, it was hers to hear and mine to brace for.
When the moon turned red, she posted a blurry photo on Facebook captioned ‘is this the
pinot talking?’
When it stayed red until the next Sunday, Josephine sent her a picture ‘If the moon still looks red to you, drink two ceasars and call your bestie.’ I’m not sure if it helped
her cope with the loss of her cat or the coyotes newly boastful and relentless yips but she forwarded it to me.
When we reached October, the brown leaves still keyed burgundy in our cherry moon. They gave the kids a half day from school so they could trick’r’treat before curfew. “Do you ever think about what winter will be like? The idea of all that snow glowing scarlet makes my front teeth twinge.”
A thud onto our cedar box of blankets.
“I really don’t think it’s that big of a change - the sun looked red during last summer’s fires in Fort Nelson. I don’t go out much at night, so I don’t notice it much.”
“You don’t notice it much?”
“Not much, sometimes I think I sleep better like this. The curfew keeps the roads quiet and there screaming’s dropped off since August.”
I picked up her stone, ready to pelt it back to her. Make it make a new sound, a bigger ripple. I continued, “When you picture a moonlit night over…the Fraser River, you don’t miss the
light? Being able to watch the current and.. feel welcome to be there?”
“I just think that people will always find a way to be unhappy. Why not be grateful? You can just go look at the river in the day – but don’t swim there it’s a death trap.”
“A death trap, worse than just being out after 6 now?” I handed apathy back to her, she hadn’t turned off the sky.
“I haven’t had any issues but Mo’ almost drowned in that river in 2013. He just had to jump off the bridge. They should just drain the whole thing but instead they keep putting up more
signs, like that’ll stop the kids!”
“Mmm…it’s four o’clock and my candy bowl probably needs a refill, I should head off. Love
you.”
Skittering across her front steps.
“Love you too – I hope none of those kids find razors or needles in their candy this year.”