I See the Moon

As I walk through this field of poppies I think of the days before. The days when mother would tell me ‘everything is going to be all right’ and when I believed it to be true. I was naïve to think so. Back then, father loved mother, and my brother, Colin, and I got along. But that was then: now everything is not all right.

Mother passed away three years ago, and nothing has been the same since then. She used to sing “I See the Moon” to me every night as she tucked me in, and now I sing it once again in this poppy field. Mother said that she was given a music box which played the melancholy Irish tune and that she would play it every night in the barracks at Renmore. She liked to tell me stories about the camp, describing every cramped corner of the dining hall, the rugged cliff edges, and the view of the vast bay below. “I see the moon, the moon sees me…”

           My brother hollers for me, “Come on Caty! Let’s go then!” Perking up, I grab my basket of poppies and skid down the hill to meet Father, whose hair has grown more silver since I last saw him.

“Go on caile. Go see your mum,” he says sullenly in his stance. I know Father will not be joining us on our walk to the cemetery. He lost Mother when she started to lose herself. Colin and I were able to see past her trembling hands and shaking knees, but Father wasn’t. He couldn’t look straight into her blue eyes, pale like the sky.

Colin skips towards the memorial site down by the cliffside. I hesitate but follow behind. Every time we go, I remember all the times we would run right for the sea, never thinking twice about the memorial.

As we creak open the latch gate, the trees begin to weep, and the sorrowful stones sit idly. I give Colin a handful of common poppies to lay in front of each grave. I ask Colin, “Do you remember coming down last year?” He nods. “Do you think it’s gotten any dimmer?” He looks up from the grave, noticing the tired sepulcher at the front, the crying leaves, and the ancient grass which surrounds us.

 “Aye, it’s turned sorry.” He agrees. “I thought the trees were happy last year.”

 “They were.” The vibrance of the poppies helps bring back some of the old life.

“I think we should come often. We can clean up a bit.” Colin responds eagerly. I haven’t seen him excited for anything in a long time.

“I don’t know, Papa wouldn’t like us leaving very much.” I say.

He ponders this for a moment, then replies pleadingly, “Okay. Can we tidy up now then? Please, please, please?” He’s so intent that I agree, and we start to water the trees with the pail he brought for drinking. I pick up some of the fallen leaves and toss them over the cliff, while Colin, enchanted by its grace, watches them flutter down the side.

“Papa is probably getting worried. C’mon, let’s go home…we can come back soon.” His eyes widen at the idea, surprised that I gave in to his pleading.

Once at the house, we creep inside. Father emerges from the corner, fuming a scarlet red from frustration. “I thought I told you two to be quick with your visit.”

“Yes, papa. We were just-” Colin answers.

Father responds firmly, “It doesn’t matter. You can go again next year.”

I try to interpose, “Actually, we were wond’ring if we could go down more often to help clean up there?”

Father’s steps begin to pound against the floorboards, which shriek at his pressure. “I don’t want you going down there any more caile. Now is not the time to act against me.” Colin whines at the demand and his eyes turn red as he holds back the tears fighting to escape through his rough, blonde eyelashes.  

“No Papa! I’m going to see her. I miss her loads and you can’t keep me!”

“Colin, watch your tongue. You will follow my word!” Father replies assertively. I watch this scene from the sofa, horrified by its increasing explosivity.

“No! You don’t do anything for us! Mum is the only one that’ll listen.” He starts in a rage and ends with a whimper.

Father doesn’t respond. Instead, he is taken aback; his hard eyes turn cold, almost dead-like. He never does respond, but turns around, and retreats slowly to his room. Father reminds me of a street rat who’s been crushed by an elk, suddenly and violently.

           After a few days, Father still hasn’t spoken to either of us. We continue to do our chores and entertain ourselves throughout the day, but Father has not left his room. Instead, he quietly peers out the door, checking to make certain that we have not left the house for anything. Tonight, we plan to go to the graveyard again, without Father’s knowledge. I told Colin it was okay if we get home before we can see the moon above the center willow in our field.

Now that the sun has set, Father lies in his room, staring at the pale, cracking ceiling, waiting…I’m not sure what he waits for. I lunge for the basket of poppies I picked the day before while Colin inches for the door, which is opened by his precise movements.

           A few minutes pass, and we reach the gate. The effulgent moon begins to rise, slowly, but always surely. I start by delivering the poppies once again, while Colin, yielding a rake, cleans up the mass of leaves. Soon, we are finishing up, Colin’s grin stretching from ear to ear. I start to look around when I hear a sudden crash behind me. There is a brief edge to the silence in the darkness until my ears shatter from Colin’s piercing wail.

I rush over to help, nearly stumbling over the same rock that must have scraped his knee.  I cover the cuts with my rag as we wait, for his cry could be heard from miles away. I seek out the rising moon; it is about to pass our willow-marker. Colin, previously focused on his pain, also looks up and exclaims, “Caty! I see the moon! Caty!”

 I step back, then see Father running towards the gate. “Why am I scrambling down to the cemetery in the middle of the night, entirely shattered, to see this donkey of a wreck?” Colin looks up at Father in shock at his presence. He pants, “Let me look.” Father gets closer to see the gravity of the injury. “Why, there’s not even anythin’ there boy. Go on then you dossers.” I call to him and beg Father to wait for just a minute. He turns around with the intent of cursing me but instead sees Mother’s grave shining in the moonlight. He passes me and drops at the headstone, where his face turns lilac with vulnerability. His brows furrow and ancient wrinkles start to reveal themselves. Colin and I watch the scene from afar, utterly surprised by Father’s sensitivity unfolded.

 As I step closer, he reaches out his rugged hand and traces Mother’s name which is engraved in the aging stone. Colin and I both kneel beside him. He turns his head toward us, then returns to the stone, where he takes his reclaimed gentle pointer and traces the words ‘wife and mother’. I reach for the flower basket and offer one to Father. He places a single poppy on the flushed grass in front of him.

 The wind howls above us, swaying the tops of the willow, which reveals the moon once more. I begin the old lullaby, “I see the moon, the moon sees me…”

Colin joins in the melody, “And the moon sees the one that I long to see.”

I start the next line when Father’s croaked voice whispers, “Please let the light that shines on me,” and together…

“shine on the one I love.”

A silver light gleams from the idle stone, flourishing towards our venerated moon, now fully risen.