The Mom In the Moon

The dreaded final bell rang announcing the end of the day. The classroom filled with the sound of the metal chair legs scraping against the tiled floor as all but one student stood up to leave. A little boy remained. He had long hair, about shoulder length. It was clear that although the boy attempted to take care of his hair, he had never been properly taught, for his wavy hair had been brushed with a small-toothed comb and poofed outwards engulfing his small face. A small hand--with nails painted in chipped blue polish--reached up to his hair and stroked it gently. He winced as his finger got caught on a small knot. 

“You deaf? School’s out,” called an older boy’s voice from the hallway. The little boy looked up pleadingly to the female teacher at the front of the room. 

“He’s right,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, Sammy, I truly am, but you gotta go.” In a reluctant screech of the metal chair legs scraping against the tiled floor, Sammy gathered his things and made his way, sluggishly, towards the door. At the doorway he looked back once more with wide, glossy eyes, but the teacher looked back down at the papers she was shuffling and pretended she didn’t see his pleading gaze. 

Sammy began his trek home, lingering in the halls as long as he could before exposing himself to the outdoor chill of winter. He buttoned his coat, took one last breath of warm, safe school air, and journeyed onward into the cold. 

Sammy traveled through the playground, he kept his head down counting the wood chips under his feet. He glanced back over his shoulder and then the other shoulder. He wished he was a grown-up so he would have eyes on the back of his head like his mom always claimed she had. 

He made it to the street without accident. He turned the corner into the alley towards his house when he felt a hand grab his hair and yank him up by it so he was hovering above the ground. Sammy yelped in pain as hair strands were pricked from his head, small balls of blood forming from the damage. 

“Not so fast SammEE,” said the same voice from earlier. The older boy who held Sammy by his hair turned so Sammy could see his audience. Sammy’s face flashed red as he saw that his classmate, boys and girls, older and younger, were watching his torment. Sammy tried to wriggle free, worsening the pain in his scalp. The students watched as Sammy closed his eyes, froze in the air, and accepted his fate. 

“SammEE? Isn’t that a GIRL’s name?” The older boy spat. Some of the bystanders laughed while others stood silent. The older boy dropped Sammy. 

“You should really cut your hair, SammEE. People might think you're a GIRL,” with each insult, the older boy ripped a strand of hair from Sammy’s head. Sammy sobbed silently. His eyes still closed mumbling please, please! over and over, but his pleas fell silently on deaf ears. 

“Do you play with dolls, SammEE?” The older boy ripped another strand of hair. Sammy reached up to defend himself. The older boy grabbed Sammy’s wrist and laughed. “Hey everyone! Did you know that SammEE paints his nails like a GIRL?” The older boy howled, displaying Sammy’s hand to the circle of students. While most kids laughed, either out of humor or obligation, some stood there, wincing at Sammy’s pain. In their heads, they told themselves I feel bad, but there’s nothing I can do. 

When the older boy finally got tired, he let Sammy go with a promise of finding him tomorrow if he didn’t “cut his hair and clean his nails”. The crowd dispersed. 

Sammy stayed curled in a ball. His tears fell silently, freezing in a small, salty puddle on the cold pavement. 

Sammy gathered himself, and continued on. 

He longed for the warmth that came with being home, but also dreaded the daily visit with his ill mom. Oh, my baby! she’d exclaim, in a delirious fever. How was your day, baby? He’d answer, Good as usual, Mama. How are you feeling, Mama? Can I get you anything, Mama? He would busy himself with making her as comfortable as possible, like the doctor said to do. 

The day the doctor told him that his mom was terminal haunts Sammy like a ghost. Sammy no longer sees her as a person, but a corpse holding on to life by a fingernail. 

Sammy’s dad would get home from work. Greet his wife, greet his son, greet his first beer of the night and then set himself--and a few more beers--up in the garage where he would spend the rest of his night, just like he had spent every other night that month. I just need some space to think things through, he told Sammy. I just need some space. 

As his mom would sleep, Sammy would read aloud at her bedside, stumbling over a word here or there. He was only in elementary school after all. He read with her everyday, even before she got sick. It was a constant; something he had come to rely on. His only sanctuary. They had almost finished the fourth Harry Potter book, his mom and him. 

Today, while Sammy was reading, his mother woke with a jolt. Her strangled cough pricked tears to his eyes. It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair. 

“Sammy?” She strained. 

“Yes, Mama. I’m here, Mama,” He grabbed her hand but he couldn’t look her in the eye. 

“Look at me Sammy,” She coughed. He looked. “Go to the drawer on my nightstand.” 

He rose heavily, resisting the strain of the weight on his shoulders. His heavy footsteps awoke the sleeping floorboards beneath him, filling the dead-silent room with a resounding CREAK. He crossed around towards the foot of the bed and then back towards the head until arriving upon the nightstand on the opposite side. 

He pulled open the drawer slowly, feeling as though he was invading his mother’s privacy. 

“Go on--” Inhale. “--Open it.” Sammy did and revealed a small black-leather notebook tied with a pink streamer. Sammy looked at his mom with inquisition. 

“For you,” She croaked. She began to cough… and cough some more. Sammy raced to his mother’s side and took her frail hand in his. 

“Dad!” He called. “DAD!” But his dad could not hear from behind the weather-proof door that separated the garage from the rest of the house. 

Sammy threw down the notebook and ran through the house and threw open the door to the garage. Sammy’s tears ripped his dad away from thoughts. His dad matched Sammy’s face of panic and followed him in a frantic dash back towards Mama’s room. 

Sammy couldn’t hear his mother’s coughs any longer, but that didn’t mean anything because he could hardly hear even his own thoughts over the pounding of his heart. 

But when they reached the room, Mama wasn’t coughing any longer. 

Sammy froze at the door as his father rushed past shaking Mama and called her name. 

“Louise!” Sammy heard as a silent tear rolled down his cheek. “Lou-EEse!” Sammy heard as he leaned against the door frame and slowly slid down it, the weight on his shoulders finally crushing him into a teeny ball. 

Then he remembered the notebook. 

He rose and stepped into the room. He pushed through the tangles of his father’s grief that hung still in the air. He lifted his mother’s hand in his one last time, her skin had froze over like his tears in the alleyway earlier. He pressed his lips to his palm and mouthed "thank you," and grabbed the notebook on his departure, leaving his dad to his thoughts. 

Sammy grabbed his coat and ventured into the cold. He ran and ran, his heart thumping in his chest, until he had ran beyond his own property line into a township owned wooded area. He went to the big oak in the center of the woods, a tree that was home to a squirrel family and a woodpecker; a familiar place where he felt welcomed. He slumped at the base of the tree and exhaled deeply for the first time in a while. Feeling as safe as he could be given the circumstance, he opened the notebook. To his surprise, on the first page, his mother had left him a note in the form of a limerick. Sammy felt the choice of style to be ironic since limericks are known to be humorous, while this particular limerick was written and is now being read during a time that was anything but humorous. 

Sammy, dear, I know I’ve left you too soon. 

Allow the sad feelings because no one is immune. 

I love you as you are, 

You’re my favorite star,

I’ll be with you looking down from the moon. 

When Sammy was younger, he, like most children, wondered what happened after you died. When he asked his mother, she had said that no one really knew. 

“Well, what do you think happens when you die?” Little Sammy had asked. 

“I think we become angels and create miracles in the lives of those we love,” His mother had replied. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think?” 

Little Sammy had thought about this long and hard with a serious hmmm. 

“I think,” Sammy had begun after some time. “That when we die, we get to go live on the moon and float around in big, bouncy space suits.” 

“Like this?” His mother had said as she pranced about the bedroom. Sammy giggled in approval. Sammy joined his mother and together they floated in “big, bouncy space suits” until it was time to tuck Sammy into bed. 

This memory engulfed Sammy and he allowed a small sob to escape his lips, his hot breathe created a cloud that hung in the cool, night air. The only light that illuminated the notebook pages was the moonlight that was fractured by the branches of the tree. He looked up at the source of the light; the moon that his mom now watched him from. 

Sammy turned to the next blank page and removed the pencil that had been attached to the book by a little leather sleeve. He put the lead tip to the page and thought about what he was meant to write. 

He thought about the weight on his shoulders and how it had gotten so heavy. He realized it was because he had no one to share the burden with. 

He thought about his teacher turning her glance away from his pleading eyes. He thought about the circle of students surrounding him as his hair was pricked from his head strand by strand. How they just stood and watched and waited. How they thought I wish I could help instead of helping. How his dad asked for space and closed the door. How he was so wrapped up in his own grief to notice that his son was grieving too. 

Sammy felt his mom’s watching eyes from the moon. She, too, had just watched him. Saw him come home each day with tear-stained cheeks and let him busy himself with fixing her some tea or propping up another pillow. He felt a pang of resentment. She had never asked him if he was okay when he clearly was not. 

He decided to write a limerick of his own.

I feel the watchful eyes, every pair. 

They rip through my heart with a tear. 

They stare like a the clock,

With a TICK and a TOCK,

But they never help me, they just stare.