The Last Moon Man

I’m the man on the moon,

I live in a barn

I’m a bit of a loon,

My name is Arn.

I’m not sure how it got here, nor I. I’m only close to sure that we didn’t come together. I think I discovered it, or maybe it found me.

I’m alone on the moon, or that’s at least how it seems. If there are other barns, I wouldn’t know. I don’t go out, really; there’s everything in here. I have food when I’m hungry, and I don’t recall thirst. There’s a window – in the loft, above the stables. I’ll often sit there and watch the earth dance. We don’t talk a lot, but I think we’re best friends. BFFs. Besties. Hang on, I think there’s one here for that:

We part in winter

like badgers and coyotes

reunite in spring

Was that it? No, not that one.

She’s the closest one to me, and that there are trillions closer to her than I – I can’t let that bother me.

It bothers me a little. But, I shouldn’t be choosy. I’m alone up here, I think.

So, when there’s knocking at the door, where the space between boards isn’t quite enough to see through, it’s logical that I be suspicious. I tune it out and hang with Bestie. Hands on ears do not offend her; we don’t talk much. Still, the noise is unimpeded. Three straight knocks – six times repeated – then a voice: “Hello?”

I’m the man on the moon,

I live in a barn.

I’m a bit of a loon;

My name is Arn

I’m alone here – I’m pretty sure. I don’t know when I got here, or when it is now. There’s no clock in the barn, but there’s everything else. A corner that’s warm; a loft where it’s cooler. I have hay to sleep on and a window to sit at. My side of the moon is always earth-facing. Sometimes I read to her by candle light. There are books worth of writings carved along the walls. I don’t remember etching them; I only know I must have. I’m alone here – I’m pretty sure.

As audiences go, she’s rather indiscriminate. Whatever I read, the reaction stays the same. She swoons and she sways, and she never goes away. I know what you’re thinking, is it possible she just can’t hear me? But these walls aren’t sound proof, and I want to believe.

So imagine how I get annoyed when, mid-haiku, I’m interrupted.

Does anyone read?

Signs say no soliciting.

Why are you knocking?

“Hello?” It’s the voice from the door – the one I ignored the first time and in several cases since. “Are you in there? Can you hear me?”

I blow my candle out before the light can be seen, then I hold my breath.

“I know you’re in there, won’t you come out?” The voice is faint, and approaching the door doesn’t make it clearer. My heart is beating faster, I can hear the blood running past my ears like a galloping horse. “Do you know how long you’ve been in there? Or does it all feel like a dream?”

“Go away, please,” I say at last, “there’s no one here.” My throat is dry, and my voice feels heavy, like I can’t throw it far enough.

“I’m sorry,” comes the voice. “I wish I could do more. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

I try to peak through the boards and catch a glimpse of my solicitor, but see nothing. “Hello?” I call, but they’ve already gone.

I’m the man on the moon,

I live in a barn,

I’m a bit of a loon,

My name is…

On the occasion I forget it, I have to find it on the walls again. But, the carvings – they move almost day to day. So where’s my name this time? I ask my bestie, but she won’t respond. That’s fine, though and, really, it’s on me for forgetting: she doesn’t talk much.

I’m alone here, mostly, or I’m pretty sure. Recently, though, I’ve been getting visits. Same voice, every day, and now looking back I can’t remember when they started, or when now is. They talk to me – really talk, unlike the earth. However, I can’t say that I prefer it. I don’t need to trust my bestie’s words, only that she’s always there; my side of the moon is always earth-facing. But, I never see my visitor; only hear their voice.

“Hello?”

Hello.

“It’s me again. Brought daisies this time...”

I scoff. There’s no daisies on the moon.

“They told me the roses were bad luck, but I wouldn’t know.”

Hang on, I have one for that around here somewhere:

Naive little rose,

Poking through the garden fence;

You forgot your thorns.

I smile, proud of myself first for writing it in a time long forgotten, then again for finding it in all this mess. The voice continues:

“I’ve been thinking a lot about why you did it… or tried to, anyway.”

Don’t overthink it, it’s just a haiku. I read them when I’m feeling lonely.

“The only thing I come up with is that I’ll never know unless you tell me…” the voice stops for a moment, then returns. It sounds distressed. “Won’t you please come out and tell me?”

Then, briefly, I remember my name: Arn. I blurt it out, but it falls into nothing. My head hurts and my eyes are leaking, but they can’t seem to hear me cry.

“Sorry, sweetie, I have to go now. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Please don’t go. Why don’t I want you to go?

No response.

I’m the man on the moon,

I live in a barn

I’m a bit of a loon

My name is…

… harder to remember with each passing day, but I don’t let it get to me. Who needs a name on the moon, anyhow? I’m alone up here or, at least, I’m pretty sure.