The Moon Got In My Eyes

The Moon Got In My Eyes.

He was weird. Didn’t really matter if you’d only met him briefly, or if you really got to know him, he was a strange one. Nevertheless, you liked him. No tricks, just the truth. That’s what he’d try to convince you to believe he was about. It was all just a distraction. That was his expertise. He was so good at it, that you’d let him run with it. You’d let him take a twenty from your wallet and shred it and toss it into the air, while you were told it was magic. You’d let him buy you drinks all night and then when you’re too sloshed to do anything more about it than laugh and slap him on the back, you’d let him make out with your girl right in front of you. 

He had the best stories to tell. Some would be be too crazy to believe, but you knew in your heart that they were true. Other stories he’d tell would have you and ten others listening laughing harder than you could remember ever laughing. And at other times, he’d have you almost on his knee, telling the most heartbreaking story that you ever heard, bringing you to tears, then he’d end it with a joke, as if tossing the world itself to the wind.

He’s gone now, but you’re still here and so are your memories with him. You think about him almost all the time. You hear a story or run across someone that you both knew and go for the phone to call him to hear what he had to say about it all, but then you remember. You remember that all there is of him is what you hold between your laughter and your tears. He is only there in that frog in your throat when you realize how much he meant to you. And you wish that what he wished for could be possible, that he could live forever.

You heard him say it many, many times, but you didn’t fully understand what he meant by it. He’d tell you in those drunken melancholy moments, shuffling out of some pub, or fireside in his backyard or at someone else’s funeral, that it’s the tiny things in life that pinch at his heart the most painful when he thinks about death. He’d tell you that he’s going to miss ice cream. He’s going to miss hearing that slap, slap, slap of the young and beautiful ladies feet smacking in their flip flap sandals as they walk away from him. He’s going to miss the stomping and stumbling of watching a little baby who’s yet not mastered walking. He’d tell you this while you were both ripped drunk, so you’d just let it go as more of his rambling. But now, you understand. Now he’s gone. Now you start to count and gather what you find a treasure in your own life, and what you can’t take with you when you too get snuffed. Your light will be out and you’ll never see or know the smoke trail left behind. That will be left for those that loved you, but never knew you as fully as they’d wished they had.


About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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