Fiction

Falling in love seems as common as walking in moonlight, yet actually being in love seems far less common, more like walking on the moon. You don't require much to be attracted to someone, to become acquainted with someone, to even share the moonlight with someone. From there, you find life more treacherous, as differences in values, perspectives, and personalities clarify how distant the moon actually is.

You grow up believing that walking on the moon is normal. Love stories in novels, television shows and movies, make it seem like being in love just requires buying the time, much like buying a lottery ticket brings a fabulous prize. It rarely works out that way. Although a few people do win the lottery, and a few people do find love, more commonly for most people the moon remains out of reach, like it has for you. You're not alone, in being alone.

Not that you didn't try. There was a time in college when you and a classmate were believers. Even in a busy time with stress and commitments, she found the time to indulge you, and you her. You started slow, getting to know each other, and it seemed much like a rocket launch, full of fiery acceleration rising into the heights of emotion. You walked in the moonlight with her, feeling like you were walking on the moon.

One night, while driving alone in darkness, the radio reported that three astronauts preparing to go to the moon had died in a fire. A random spark in the oxygen-rich atmosphere inside their capsule produced an inferno. You felt deja vu. The month before, you had your own dreams of going to the moon become ashes in an inferno.

You awoke to your clock radio one morning, listening as they announced that four students had died in a head-on car collision. You heard their names, one detonating the conflagration of your dreams burning away your breath. You floated in an emotional weightlessness, visualizing the terror of the impending impact, the abrupt collision, the agonizing pain, witnessing a total eclipse of the moon.

You couldn't attend her funeral, but during semester break had gone to her hometown, stopping at a florist to buy a dozen red roses before going to the cemetery. The florist asked “are these for a young lady?” After you softly answered “yes,” the florist exclaimed “Oh, she's a very lucky girl. She will be so happy to receive these beautiful flowers.” You didn't see the point in explaining the circumstances.

The news of the astronauts' deaths came as you returned alone in a droning car, traveling on a highway in darkness through the tunnel of your headlights, encapsulated in your personal grief. Noticing the gas getting low, you pulled off the highway and drove into the first filling station. An attendant came out to pump the gas and you told him about the announcement that had just come on the radio. He looked askance and asked “astro-nauts?” It was obvious he didn't understand, so you explained, “you know, the men that were going to go to the moon?” He started laughing, “Silly people, they can't go to the moon.” He was right, about you.

Two people did, of course, walk on the moon—two years later. Life had moved on. It happened, like some people win the lottery, or some people find love. You even watched it on television. But you knew there were actually 3 people on that Apollo 11 moon mission. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were the historic figures who first walked on the moon. The third person watched through the window of the orbiting mothership. He had gone through the fiery liftoff, the acceleration, the journey, but he didn't walk on the moon. His name was also Michael.