Secrets with the Moon || keaton stromberg

One

The small town we lived in was in Northern Washington, a state that most people forget when they're listing the fifty in alphabetical order. Then again, I usually forget everything after Alabama (pun intended). Here in Calder, the evergreens never grew too tall as they rose exponentially higher than the average skyline in Washington. Wood splinters and pine needles in your shoes were a nuisance, as well as a nostalgic memory of your good ol' home state. People here are used to seclusion. It's not that we didn't have anything, we had things, like a movie theater and bowling alley, it's just that we didn't like them as much when we were younger. Family was the main element in town.

Kids here found enjoyment in their natural element, the forest. My time spent there was more than the average 60 minutes all those football players on TV nowadays tell us to get. Sometimes I wouldn't leave the woods, even when dinner was on the line. My friend would have to drag me out by my feet, as he was always hungrier than me. One of my fondest memories was watching the sunset from up in the trees, where my father had almost illegally built a treehouse. The treehouse is legal though, and he'll fight for that to the grave. The colors of the sky would turn from blue to an orange or to a pink, eventually turning into a deep purple, though. Fog hung so low sometimes that I was able to stick my head into it if I had gotten up early enough. Summer days were torture, the humidity squeezed the life out of you, forcing you to stay inside by the air conditioner most of the day. I think that's what I miss the most, the only reason you didn't want to stay outside was because it was too humid, now, kids stay inside with their technology and mind numbing games, not giving the life outside a chance. The reason I don't go outside, well, let's just say the memories choke me more than any summer heat wave could.

I stay up late some nights, unable to fall asleep because of the haunting memories I got cheated out of. They circle through my brain, practically insulting me as they attack me when I'm at my weakest. Were you ever given a chance, to receive everything you've ever wanted, but then were tossed aside because you weren't good enough? Yeah, that happened to me. Marriage is the reason why, at 23 years old, I still live with my mother and father, I'm just too depressed to look for another chance.

+ + +

My eyes shoot open, my corneas still weak from the lack of rest the past few nights. The same nightmare haunts me day in and day out, and every night as well. Seeing them, happy, together, it always kills me. I move the old quilt off of my body and place my bare feet on the creaky wood floor of my bedroom in the attic. Watching as the sweat droplets fall from my forehead and land on the floor, seeping into the cracks of the poor flooring, I carefully shift my weight onto my feet. My balance is still slightly shaky as the painful memory reverberates through my brain. Her barely foreign, English voice, echoing louder each time.

"We're in love!"

What is love though?

Slowly, I move my feet from my bed and towards the mahogany desk in the secluded corner of my room. Careful not to make a sound, I tip-toe until I'm at the edge of the desk, where I can clearly see the wood chips sticking out into the air, ready to catch the edge of a previously beautiful sweater and rip it apart the strings with the its pointed teeth.

I sit down, my body weight making the broken chair creak loudly in the silent and empty night. Dry fingers run over the dusty desk that I can't seem to keep clean. Grazing over the unpredictable wood, I move to grab my number 2 pencil, my hands still shaking from the anxiety the nightmare caused me.

Reaching across the desk, my limbs constricting me and only letting me go so far, my shaky hands grab hold of the leather strings of my brown notebook where the string's ends look like the ends of my hair, dead and fraying. Bringing the book toward me, I wipe the sweat from my forehead, the smelly and sticky substance running on my fingers. The perspiration wets my callouses, making the act of holding a pencil at this ungodly hour even more difficult than need be. I open the book, the slightly ripped and bent pages flying to the left, the penciled in words becoming a blur. Stoping on an empty page, I let my ears only hear one sound, the sound of graphite against sun-dried paper.

I wish for you to hold me for a thousand hours, longer than both the Sun and Moon could stay awake. But that's just a wish, and so far, none of mine have come true. Especially the one where I wished for us to be together, I guess wishes just lost meaning after that, right when they stopped working for me.
- Estelle

The whole book is filled with drawings and entries from when I was little girl, when I used to run around the woods and sketch and depict everything I saw with words. But the most recent entries have been in the passed few months, where I would sit at this broken desk with only the moon to watch me lament to the one who would never hear.

The book is the story of the girl who lost the one she loved most to a girl who he loved most. And sometimes, I re-read the passages in my mind and realize how pathetic waiting is at this point. But I have no idea what else to do, other than move out or end my life of sorrow, neither idea seems appealing enough. I've been waiting for so long that I've forgotten what life was like before I realized he was the one for me.

I close the journal, and run my dry hands along my oily face, the contact between them awkward. The room temperature rises, and suddenly the sweatpants and the sweatshirt that cling to my body are too much. Pulling them off, I stand in a pair of black spandex and a blue sports bra, waiting for my body to cool down, but it doesn't. The room only gets hotter, and I can't determine if it's because the thermostat is broken or because my mind has finally blown a fuse.

Looking outside, I see small beams of light bending into the atmosphere above me. I conclude that it is almost sunrise and decide to go for a hike to see it. Moving to the opposite corner of my room, my feet glide against the hardwood. Once I'm at my bed again, I reach under it and pull out my hiking boots, my socks stuffed into the left boot. After I lace them tight around my feet, I pull on an old maroon athletic long-sleeve shirt and climb across my bed, towards the window at its level. I open the lock on the window and climb out, a rush of cold summer morning air whipping me in the face. The spandex bunch around my thighs and I straighten them out before climbing onto the roof of the sunroom below me.

My mother used to have a garden up here, but the weeds that overcome the dirt show it hasn't been used in a couple of years. Carefully stepping around the crab grass, I make my way to the edge of the roof and climb down the vine ladder, or at least that's what I call them. My feet touch the ground quietly, and then I'm running full speed into the woods, racing the coming sunrise. Heavy feet are the only thing slowing me down, and I contemplate taking them off all together, but I'd rather not have to explain why I have splinters all over my feet to my mother later.

The birds are just waking up, the fiery fingers of dawn reaching out to them and nudging them to rise from their sleep. Evergreen branches reach out into the sky, like they all want to catch a glimpse of the sunrise I'm racing to see. I run to the edge of my property, my throat dry from breathing in the cold morning air I still haven't gotten used to yet. I run to the edge of the mountain top, which isn't all that difficult considering my town is along a mountain trail. Once I'm within close proximity to the abrupt rocky cliffs, I turn and hastily climb up a ladder that hangs off a overwhelmingly tall red cedar. The ladder leads to a beautiful tree house that my father built originally as a home for him and my mother, but they couldn't get cable up here so they built another house. The tree house was then dedicated to me, and I gladly took it in, cleaning it up and practically leaving here. It's connected to three great red cedars that reach up into the sky.

I reach the top, the raw wood smell inflaming my nose and instantly making me happy. Running over to the window, I look out just as the Sun is making it's first pink peak at the world of today. I watch as it rises from the Rocky Mountains, which are closer than you would think. I look out past Seattle, Olympic National Park behind me, and stare at the colors that dance across the sky above the magnificent Rocky's.

The colors themselves remind me of my youth, and soon enough, I can't bare to look at them any longer. Not long after, I'm screaming, my yells ripping at my throat. I don't entirely know why I am, but I scare the birds out of their nests with my shrill screams.

My mind drifts to him, the only thing it has been drifting to lately. Everything about him brightens my day, and it's really pathetic to say that my life has been dull without him, but it's true. The only color I've managed to drag back into my life are the colors of the sunrise and the colors of the memories I write in my journal, but those colors come painfully.

I've realized no colors in life are free, you have to pay for your life to be more than black and white.