Secrets with the Moon || keaton stromberg

Three

(Unedited {I honestly never edit})

The Sun is only just waking up, its exhausted fingers of daylight casting away the shadows still creeping around, from the night. I sit in front of the single window in my room, watching as the light flows in through the transparent plastic. Speckles of dirt are scattered on the window, the water stains and mud stains are inconsequential commodities to be taken care of compared to the insect and weed collecting dirt pile that sits outside my window. Although, I would say the shades of green in each weed are aesthetically pleasing, the shade complimenting the blue color of my room.

I stare at the dirt pile only awhile longer, scanning the area for the anthill that's inevitablly there, before pulling on an old pair of muddy jeans and a white shirt. I casually walk downstairs, my socked feet sliding only a little bit on the hardwood. The living room is tidy, every pillow put back in its place. My mother is nowhere to be found, only the smell of the burning candles identifies that she was in the room recently.

My feet slide across the hardwood, the muddy boots by the front door waiting to be filled. But when I get to where I last left my piece of gardening attire, I find that the boots are not there. Puzzled, I move towards the garage, maybe my mother put them there as part of her cleaning. Once I'm there, I swiftly open the door to find my boots perched on the steps that lead down into the garage. A smile spreads onto my face as I pull them on, the flakes of dried mud falling off as I move the strings into a knot.

It's weird how something so small can make such a big difference in your life. These boots, the ones that have seen too many weeds and worms and mud the past few years to even begin to count, fill me with a sense of belonging, that even though I am nowhere near complete, I feel complete, even if it's for a fraction of a second.

I walk through the house like I'm on death row, I have no idea why I feel this way, but I haven't had an idea about a lot of emotions I have felt lately. My feet pound the ground in a continuous rhythm, the last march I have in "this" me. I'm going through some kind of change, I can feel it deep within me. My bones are moving beneath my muscle tissue, and my heart is humming to a new beat, the kind of addictive and adrenaline pumping beat I could get used to. I'm walking on death row with a purpose; I'm ready to kill the old me and be reincarnated as a better person, the kind of person who wouldn't let themselves fall in love with someone who would never love them back, the kind of person who won't let themselves fall in love with a person who would never love them back.

The cicadas screech in the distance, but their loud siren-like call goes unnoticed by my determined mind. Everything is blocked out, the throbbing memories have stopped throbbing and the haunting future ahead of today has vanished for a single moment. Hopefully it can vanish for a little while longer. The hot summer heat of Washington disappears and my body temperature evens out for the most part.

I stare at the vine ladder, the white ridges being depicted as a mountain ridge in my mind. Grabbing the white rung encased in twirling green leaves and stems, I pull myself onto it, starting the climb that will lead me to the end of this life.

I break ground, breaking me in the process. A tear hits the ground, the last tear that I will let fall for him. The shovel keeps piercing the dirt, the shallow planting box only allowing the shovel to go so far. Once the hole is as deep as I'm going to get it without puncturing a hole in the sunroom, I climb off the roof and make my way into the forest with an empty pot and my shovel. Almost immediately, I spot a small patch of blue flowers beginning their first bloom. Carefully, I dig my shovel into the dirt around it and cautiously place the plant into the pot. Satisfied, I walk back to the house, shovel in my left hand and flower pot held to my chest with my right arm.

The fog that blankets the morning has lifted, leaving fresh morning air in its place. The walk back to my house is shorter than anticipated, the evergreens fade past my eyes at an incredibly fast rate. Soon enough, I stand before the hole once again, but this time my hands lower healthy soil into the dried soil's place. The blue plant surrounded by lifeless dirt stands out like a night-light in a dark bedroom. After I clean up and put the shovel and gloves in their respective places, I open my bedroom window sit on the ledge with my notebook. I almost take off my sweaty, dirt coated white shirt, but I leave it, just because I feel like doing so.