The Slightly Chipped Full Moon
Katie G. Albritton
The music of life spreads on an ephemeral quartet.
It begins with the short, light notes of one's childhood. The tune is full of wonder and the thrill of exploration. It chirps like a sweet little robin, sitting in it's nest and waiting for Spring. It is played by flutes and clarinets, the notes high and sometimes off-key. It tells the story of childhood.
Childhood, in and of itself, is about growth and exploration. The child explores the world around him, bight eyes brimming with curiosity and wonder. He smiles at the simplicity of his world, his eyes having fallen on the brightly colored wings of a butterfly. He is eager to learn everything he can about his world, if not to help himself understand, to at least please those around him. He learns mostly through experience and play. Some lessons are fun and easy, and these are the child's favorites.
However, some of these lessons are cruel and harsh as well. They are much harder to learn, and it usually takes the child a long time to even begin to understand why the world has to be this way. He learns that you cannot always get what you want. He learns that life is more than just play. He learns that life isn't fair. This is when part two of the song begins. This is where the new moon changes and becomes the waning crescent.
The tune changes. It becomes faster, less cheery, and more complex. This is young adulthood. This is when our child leaves everything he knew behind and starts the learning process over. This is college. This is love. This is experience. And this is pain. There are new lessons to be learned now. There are new friends to make, and old friends to leave behind. There is confusion and regret in this song. It is played with clarinets, trumpets, saxophones, and drums.
The child is a young man now. He is in college, learning new things and forgetting old ones. He learns to set his alarm, or risk missing class. He learns to study much harder than he has ever studied before. He learns that alcohol should never be consumed on a Sunday, for he'll feel like he is ill the next day. He learns that he misses the way school used to be. He'll learn that he desperately misses his family and his friends.
The young man begins to experience different forms of love. There is familial love, the deep bond he shares with the family he left behind to pursue his studies. There is the love he shares with friends, old and new. There is the love for old and new places, that attachment to the familiar and the unexpected. Then there is romantic love, that confusing, hot, and jumbled emotion that he has little experience with. He does not know what to do with it. Who does? All he can do is follow his heavy heart and confused mind. Surely he will do the right thing.
He also has new experiences, usually ones that make his head spin and heart thump faster. He tries new things, makes choices by himself for the first time. Some of these are good choices. Some of them are mistakes. That's all part of experience. One cannot always choose the right thing. There is no black and white in life. Everything is shaded in hues of gray, some dark and frightening, and some soft and inviting. It's all a part of growing up.
Of course, there will be pain. There is always pain. He can never escape pain, because it follows everyone, hovering over them like a dense fog. There is the pain of trust being broken. It wrenches out his heart, throws it to the ground, and stomps on it while wearing pointy high-heels. There is the pain of heartbreak. It picks up the mashed heart and slowly tears it into strips, tossing the strips aside like damp cloth. There is the pain of hope dying. It is a pain so severe it cannot be accurately described. Pain comes in many forms.
The tune changes yet again, as does the moon. It moves through waxing crescent, to third quarter, to waning gibbous, and finally to full. It is a slightly chipped full moon. It has been through a lot in the past few days. It was dropped at some point, breaking off a few fragments, yet it still takes its place in the sky. It has a job to do. It cannot rest just yet. It is only halfway done with its dance in the sky.
The tune is in its third stage, just as is the young man's life. The song has slowed down a bit, and is somewhat more monotonous. There are some random spurts of life and energy, the calls of trumpets sounding over the french horns, saxes, and low brass. The man graduated from college. He gets a job. Marries. Has a family of his own. He has the experience of watching a new song start for his children, playing lightly and meshing with his own melody.
The man gets a job somewhere. Perhaps he becomes an accountant at a bank somewhere, spending the majority of his days crunching numbers under the cold eyes of his superiors. Maybe he is a teacher, sharing his years of knowledge and experience with others in the fond hope that he can make a difference in their lives. He might be a writer, spending hours at his computer brainstorming ideas and creating whole new worlds of creativity and imagination on the cruel screen before him. He may even be a scientist of some sort, doing research and writing reports of his findings, successful or otherwise. He chooses his career based on his own wants and desires. It is his right. He takes it gladly.
He meets a young woman, close to his own age, somewhere in the notes and measures of his song. They fall in love, the wild, wonderful, bittersweet arms of romantic love. They have a few fights. It is to be expected. However, they stay together and grow stronger. The man proposes to her somewhere romantic, perhaps a park, a forest, a fancy restaurant, a beach somewhere. They marry soon after, and life is well and happy. There are still a few fights, but nothing strong enough to pull them apart.
They soon learn that they are going to have their own child. There is excitement, fear, happiness, anxiety, love, and panic. It is a jumble of so many clashing, conflicting emotions. It is terrifying. It is stressful. It is painful. It is wonderful. They prepare the house for the new spark of life, the new song about to begin. Then the song begins. The happy couple brings the new baby home. The man is a father. A proud father. He has never been happier in his life. He spends as much time as possible with his child, listening to the cheerful melody that stopped playing for him long ago.
The song changes for the final time. The moon moves out of its slightly chipped fullness into the waxing gibbous, the first quarter, then pauses shortly at waxing crescent. It is almost at the new moon again, but not quite yet. There is still the last fourth of the song to be played. The musicians have been waiting eagerly for this part. This is the last part of life, before death.
The song is much slower now, and the longer it plays, the slower and quieter it gets. The musicians are tired by now. Low brass and woodwinds play, along with french horns, some low drums, and clarinets. The saxes and flutes play sometimes, but their notes are so soft they can barely be heard. The man has grown old and frail. He does not work anymore. He tends to spend his time reading, or working in the flower garden he loves so much. His children are adults now. He lives to see their happiness. He knows that he will die soon.
The man retires from whatever job he had been working. His eyes are too poor to see the numbers on the bank forms anymore. His voice is too soft to be clearly heard by his students anymore. His arthritis hurts his hands and wrists too much to type any more stories, novels, or poems. He is too weak to carry or move the heavy equipment at his lab. He has no choice but to retire and let the newer, younger generation continue his work. It is bittersweet. He is tired, and glad that his years of work have earned him a good rest. But he will miss his job. He loved his job. It was something to keep him busy, a distraction from his memories. Who doesn't cherish distraction?
When he is not reading, the old man spends his time in his garden. He has several different types of flowers growing there, but his favorites are the Bluebells. Their purple-blue petals so gently curved, and so soft to the touch. It feels like brushing the tips on his fingers over silk. Something about the Bluebells reminds him of home, of family long past, and of memories good and bad. He finds himself tasting salt as he thinks about all of these things. He realizes that he is crying; it happens every time he thinks about the Bluebells. He can no longer tell if these are tears of happiness, sadness, or regret. Perhaps it's all three. It does not really matter. Tears are tears. He continues to weep.
His children are grown up now. Seeing them happy, healthy, and well brings him joy. He even has a few grandchildren. He loves being a grandfather. There is nothing he enjoys more than spoiling his grandchildren rotten. Their bright smiles bring him joy that he hasn't felt in years. Their songs mesh with their parents, which mesh with his. It's a loud, but very short, symphony. A beautiful and terrifying work of musical art. He smiles and watched the children play from his garden. He has started crying again. It's more than just the Bluebells this time. His song is coming to an end.
The moon returns to its new phase. The song comes to an end. The old man passes silently, peacefully, in his sleep. He had a good song. It was beautiful, ideal in almost every way. It was life. Certainly, the moon is somewhat damaged. Slightly chipped. That's to be expected. Life isn't easy. No one said it would be. The only fact in life is that there will come change, as well as an end. Every song has to end at some point. The musicians have their own songs to worry about. There shouldn't be any worry or unease, however.
The song may be over, but the slightly chipped full moon will rise again.