Life Moves On
When something in nature is named after gooey, alien-like slime tubes emerging from underground tunnels to slither and snake around our feet before a modern dinosaur comes and devours it mercilessly, I’m here for it.
In this case, I’m referring to the Worm Moon, which is the full moon that appears in the month of March. This year the moon was set to appear near the end of the month, when spring is warming the ground, the grass is getting greener by the day, buds are appearing from the trees, and armies of robins are patrolling the Earth seeking worms to munch on for a delicious snack.
When the Worm Moon comes signs that spring is in full bloom are present; the Earth is waking up.
Well, normally. Outside my window on the night of the Worm Moon, we have ten inches of snow, ice, and slush. Most of the town is without power due to the storm, and it is a balmy twenty-eight degrees outside. If there were any worms on the surface they probably froze to death. Any robins that were hanging around are probably burrowed in their nests, or getting the hell back to the south like a few flocks of geese I noticed jetting out of the area for warmer weather. I can imagine the flock blaming the Head Goose who told them it was time to come back north; his credentials are probably being reviewed as we speak.
The brutal weather matches my mood. The Worm Moon happens to fall on the birthday of my deceased friend; the first one without him. It’s hard to feel especially springy or bright on a day like this. I texted his mom earlier in the day to check-in, and she lamented how difficult of a day it had been. Thankfully, she and her husband are enjoying the warmth in Florida. Missing the storm gave her a little bit of solace, she said.
My friend and I used to walk in this weather all the time. No matter how cold, how dark, how miserable, we always had a thirst for being outside and experiencing the elements. We were adventure buddies. When I think of my greatest childhood and adolescent excursions, he was always there with me. There was no one better to climb the next hill, look around the next corner, or to trespass with.
For this month’s microadventure I venture out to a small lake to watch the moon rise. The water isn’t frozen over, allowing it to perfectly reflect the blue and magenta hues mixing above the horizon. The cold keeps all life from entering the water, allowing it to keep its glass-like appearance as night fell on the silent world.
I find a bench at the head of the lake and plop down. Half the bench is clear of any debris, while the other is still covered in chunks of ice. I am not up for a long hike or extensive adventure on this night; my legs are weighed down by the memories of my friend. He would have been 31. It is hard not to think about all the great adventures we could have had, all the fun times still ahead. But as the priest said at his funeral, he had 30 great years. Don’t neglect that time just for what was lost in a future that never existed, and that we are never guaranteed.
I look to my left and stare at the empty, frozen side of the bench. He is here with me, I am sure of it. Throughout our youth we played endless hours of sports together. Football, lacrosse, basketball, ultimate. We had a special connection on the field regardless of what sport we were playing. Always in sync, always aware of what the other was about to do. I can’t even count the amount of times we sat together on a bench just like this, completely spent after giving it our all together on the field of battle.
At his funeral, our friend group put together a photo board to display. One of the most prominent photos was the two of us, sitting in agony on a bench after a particularly brutal game of ultimate. I was slumped back, mouth agape, clearly trying to get more oxygen. He was hunched over, elbows on knees, staring at the ground. If anything defined our friendship it was this photo. Living life to the fullest together until we had nothing left to give. After the services, his brother referenced that photo specifically when he asked if he could keep the photo board. Of course, I obliged.
Now I am alone, at least physically, on this bench. Staring out at the lake, the sky getting ever darker, I speak to him. I ask how he is doing, how it is out there, why he decided to end it all, and if he regretted his decision.
Why did you choose a long-term solution to short-term problems? What were you thinking? Why didn’t you say anything?
—
Looking to the east, a soft glow begins to appear just below the horizon. One could be mistaken for assuming it was light pollution from a nearby city. Where I am seated, though, I know the moon was on its way. Immediately my mind is transported back to a warm spring evening; what this night is supposed to be.
Years ago, my friend and I set out for a walk in the woods around sunset. We started on Troy’s family land, then followed the creek back into the valley. Clearly trespassing, which we never cared about, we noticed that the level of the creek began to ascend. Curious, we followed it uphill until we saw a clearing to our right. The increasing darkness of the forest was dramatically broken by a sudden burst of bright sky that basked in a treeless twilight. Like moths to a flame we diverted our route from the creek and made our way up the hill to see the clearing. Upon leaving the forest we found that we were at the base of a pond on the edge of someone’s land; essentially, we were on the perimeter of this person’s backyard. If we wanted to we could have looked into their windows and seen what they were having for dinner. Instead, we stayed hidden behind the mound that held the pond in place and looked at the sky to the east.
Amidst the purple hue on the horizon we saw the tippy-top of the moon begin to emerge. Realizing we were in for something special, we changed position to get a clearer view. In the cotton candy sky we stood silently as we watched the full moon slowly rise from the horizon in dramatic splendor. Not a word was spoken for what seemed like an eternity. Transfixed, the two of us were completely enveloped in the moment. Adding anything to it verbally would have shattered its sacredness. When the bottom of the moon finally hoisted itself above the hill in the distance, and all was revealed, I looked back at my friend. He didn’t realize I was looking. His eyes were still glued to the horizon, his jaw dropped at the magnificence of it all. He was fully alive in that moment; wholly entranced by the majesty that life had to offer. I’ll never forget his face that night. And I’ll never stop wondering when that enchantment with life he felt so fully withered away to the point of extinction.
A few minutes later we made eye contact, nodded, and snuck up the yard back onto the road. We continued home, not saying a word about what we had just seen. We didn’t need to.
As I watch the moon rise from my bench on the edge of the lake I begin to tear up. Here I am, still experiencing that wonder, that amazement, that awe of the full moon rising above the icy world that surrounded me. Would he have still felt so down if he gave the full moon one more chance? Or was all so desperately lost that the moon had lost its pull on him? I wished he was around to help me find out.
—
The moon ascends to a point of reflection on the water. Illuminating a previously dark landscape, its light gracing my right cheek in a cold embrace that makes it clear it is time to go. Silently, I traverse the frozen tundra alone, once again not another human in sight. Three months in and I had yet to see another person out on these excursions. The peace is nice, and often necessary. But it is a bit sad knowing how often we miss out on beautiful, silent evenings such as these, in favor of staying tightly knit in our caves. While no one is physically in sight, deep down I know I am not traveling alone tonight. Even though my footsteps are the only ones visibly crunching into the snow, I can sense with certainty a second pair walking right along with me, albeit invisibly.
I turn the corner into my driveway and started towards the back door when they catch my eye. There, in the snow and ice, I see a dozen green iris leaves piercing through the snow. Against all odds, in brutal conditions, they emerge. The hell with it, they must have thought, it’s time to come out through hell or high water (or ice).
I stare at these resilient green spades for a few moments, mystified by their determination and the poignant reminder they offer:
Like it or not, and no matter what, life goes on. And so shall we.
