The Man and the Moon: A Story for Valentine’s Day

There was a little old man who lived in a tree, and he was in love with the moon.

Within his tree, Jerry McGunry kept a tidy home. Simply furnished, he kept two worn armchairs by the doorway, often accompanied by a tea set fashioned lovingly out of acorns and whittled spoons. There were always two cups. In the depths of winter, a fire would roar in the hearth, roaring and roaring against the cold silence.

As the sun began its lethargic descent below the horizon, Jerry would leave whatever small task he was occupying his time with without fail. As the fires of the sky were calmed with a blanket of smooth darkness, he would slip out of his day clothes in favour of a suit. This particular suit was the colour of the night sky. It was faded around the elbows, crinkled with time, and accompanied by a dark blue bow tie and a crisp white shirt – Jerry would have used the word “dapper” if he were one to compliment himself. 

In the front breast pocket, a dried white rose perched quietly.

Gathering two acorn shells, Jerry filled them with fresh tea, careful to put two spoons of sugar in the cup on the left. “I make damn good tea,” he mumbled to himself. “Eighty-two years of life makes a damn good cup of tea”. 

Gently, laboriously, he set them on a small tray in the far corner of the worn kitchen. It was rigged up to strong ropes stretching up into the dark trunk. I’ll be with you soon my love, he thought as he observed the pulley ropes as far up as he could into the yawning nihility. 

A small archway across the room revealed a spiral staircase stretching up into the gloom. He lifted an aching leg, joints groaning, and began his evening ascent to the sky. 

“Hello, my love. How has your day been? I wonder what you see from up there. I planted the seeds for the corn this morning! I remember how much you loved corn, so I’ll bring you some once it’s harvested, covered in butter and salt just the way you like it.”

The two cups of tea stood on the platform, one was half drunk, the other untouched. The night sky remained open and waiting above them, diluted with a peaceful scattering of stars. The near full moon had opened its eyes to the scene far below. 

“I know you’re listening, darling. We all love to listen. Sometimes I listen, and I hear your voice in the stream by the bottom of the garden – did I ever tell you that? I heard you whilst I was sowing the seeds. Your voice whispers to me, it whispers memories and secrets and prophecies. It’s so quiet though – why are you so quiet?”

Jerry stopped, silent, listening for a reply. 

“You know darling, one day, when we aren’t torn apart, we’ll live together in the clouds and the stars. Every atom of you and every atom of me will be together in the birds and the seeds and the tops of the trees and in moths and butterflies and those wee specks of dust, you see drifting in the moonlight. Wait for me darling, please hang around. I only see you when I fall asleep,” a tear traced its way through the severe wrinkles carved into Jerry’s granite features, “and I can’t be like this anymore.”

The moon listened to the song the big tree serenaded her with. Loneliness only brushed its fingers against her when the sun reared its head and the tree fell to the curse of silence. Silence, silence. It haunted her. But for now, she could listen to the hymn preached from below.

“You haven’t touched your tea darling. I put two sugars in it, just how you like it.” 

“Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“Oh yes please, thank you.”

Two teenagers stood awkwardly in a small, crudely built cottage, somewhere under an overgrown fern. The young man did not actually know how to make tea – he had always let his parents prepare it. How hard could it be?

The young woman was perched on a stool by the table. Her dark skin was glowing in the evening light cascading through the open window, her ebony hair a wild nest above her head. She had styled it carefully for the occasion, but the breeze was not as gentle as predicted. 

“Milk?”

“And two sugars, please. Why, you are such a gentleman Mr McGunry.”

“Oh no, please, call me Jerry.” 

A guardian of the stars, she watched, reticent and unmoving. A cold whisper of breeze drifted down to find dry lips not kissed in four years, however remained saturated with an infinite love. 

“I miss your hands. When did I last hold your hand, Liza? Was it whilst the storm hit, or before? Or was it afterwards, when you didn’t come home, and I found you already cold?”

Through the gentle tears, Jerry smiled up at the sky, revealing his small handful of teeth that refused to fall out. 

“I’m getting a little chilly now, darling. I’m going to head towards bed. I miss having your warmth tucked into my side. I love you, Liza, I hope you sleep well. See you soon my love.” 

“Will you be staying the night, Elizabeth?”

It was three months since Jerry made that first cup of tea. He was getting good at it now. 

“It is terribly cold out – do you have space for me?”

“I’ll always have space for you Elizabeth. Here – I’ll make up the spare room.” 

Elizabeth did stay the night, however not in Jerry’s spare room. 

The bed was piled with mountains of colourful throws and cushions; Liza had always thought that more was better than less. Jerry carefully, lovingly hung up his wedding suit on the back of the door and crawled into his big, empty bed, joints aching passionately. 

I’m ready to go now, he said to the ceiling. I’m ready to see her again. I’m ready to see my girl. 

The next morning, Jerry did not get out of bed for the pain in his joints, for the pain in his heart. It was like he carried a backpack, a backpack full of knives and blades and the worst stinging nettles, and every time he shifted something else would pierce a new angle of his heart until one day, there would be nothing left. And when that day came, when there was nothing left, the other side of the bed might be warm once more. 

“Hey sweetheart, how are you feeling this morning?”

“Mmmhhrrrr mph.”

“Oh honey, it’s just a cold.”

“Look after me,” Jerry mumbled from under the orange flowered duvet cover, sniffling purposefully in an attempt to elicit sympathy from his wife. 

Liza sighed and smiled, drifting into the kitchen to pop the kettle on. Jerry grinned, nuzzling into the piles of pillows. At that moment he knew that he had married his perfect girl – his soulmate. 

“Liza?” He called to her. 

“Yes dearest?”

“I love you.”

There were no small daily tasks that were important enough to get Jerry up that day – the weight of his grief was too heavy on his shoulders – the weight of a thousand stale cups of tea. Awake and aching, Jerry pondered his relationship with time. He pondered how the years had grown on his face like mould, eating away at his youth, spreading wrinkles, cataracts, and broken teeth as though there was no limit of energy available to it. He pondered how the years had stolen from him, with their hourly fingers stretching and reaching and stealing. He pondered how the years had dug holes in the dirt and filled them, slowly, one by one, with the people who brought him joy. 

He pondered how the years had left him all alone, with nothing but his home in the tree, and the silence of the moon. 

Time was running thin, cracking and splintering under his feet but never quite breaking no matter how hard he hit it with the hammer. Time did not understand love or grief, although they were the same. Grief, truly, is just love. It is all the love you wish to give so passionately, but you can’t, you can’t, for there is nowhere for it to go. And so it festers inside you, wrapping cold hands around your heart, scratching at your throat, gathering in your aching joints; grief is the love that can’t escape. 

Jerry was overflowing with it. Ever since the day he found his wife’s cold body broken on the ground, covered in leaves and debris – a crude imitation of respect. Ever since he scooped her into his arms, just as he had done when she was first made his wife, and carried her home, her body warmed only by his fierce angry heart and bitter tears. Ever since he laid her in her armchair whilst he scanned the bookshelves for the pages they had carried throughout their life together.

“I, Jerry McGunry, take thee, Elizabeth Hesper, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, ’til death do us part.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

The cheers from the small crowd were great enough to reach the treetops as the couple’s lips met, the strength of their love shaking the grass-woven archway they stood beneath – together and for always. 

Liza looked up at Jerry, her deep russet eyes full of sunlight and promise, and smiled the smile that Jerry would see every waking and sleeping hour after her death. 

“Till death do us part.”

Jerry had gently closed her eyes. He kissed the sleeping lids, stroking her damp hair flat against her head, watching it obey gravity in a way it never had while she lived. Reaching over her, he pulled a tattered scrapbook from the shelf. 

He had opened the book, receipts and tickets fluttering in an imaginary breeze. Memories lurched from pages. He had held the book out in front of him for Elizabeth to see, despite her closed eyes and still chest. 

There were only a few blank spaces left in their adventure book. Jerry had flipped to the next one, tears blurring the smiles of a stolen past, and with a shaking hand and a shaking pencil wrote the words he had dreaded since the first time he saw her eyes light up his world. 

Elizabeth McGunry, my beloved wife, soulmate, life partner, and best friend. 

March 27th 1940 – February 28th 2022

She shone brighter than the full moon on a clear night.

The sun had already made the horizon its grave by the time Jerry dragged himself out of bed that evening. He was weak, weaker than he had ever been, but nothing would stop him from climbing those stairs with two cups of acorn tea, one with two sugars, and talking to his wife. She must be lonely up there, he thought. I have to give her company.

And so he climbed. The tea waited for him at the top of the pulley system, perfectly made from a lifetime of practice. The stairs seemed to stretch into oblivion; Jerry found himself squinting to see the next step. It was as if there were a night sky within the tree home itself, sprinkled with dust particles like the most distant stars. 

His joints ached like no tomorrow, each carved wooden stair a splinter in his legs – a splinter in his soul. 

Another step, another step. The shadows were dissolving, melting into the sky. Another step, another step. His breathing became light and easy. The stars were above him, the moon was above him, and his wife smiled at him from the top of the staircase. 

His joints no longer ached. 

The darkness of the past four years was absorbed by her light, white and fresh and naked. I’m not too late, Jerry thought. I made it home. 

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

“Hello, Jerry.”

“I missed you.”

“Come with me.” Her hand was warm as his fingers linked with hers. The tea stood untouched, colder than death.

One with milk, one with milk and two sugars. 

In the tea’s mirror-like reflection, the moon stood proud and whole in her sky. She was ablaze with the brightest, purest light the night had ever witnessed. Next to her, the sky was pulling apart, stripping the fibres of midnight away to make room for the newest addition to the universe – a beautiful, brilliant, fresh white star. 

The man and the moon were together once more.

The End

If you enjoyed this creative piece, you can read more of Brig’s creative writing here.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Featured Image Credit: Pexels