MY MOON'S MEMORY

BY LE'VAR HOWARD

Moon — Cold shoulder. Funny, I always found a warmth in the moon on nights alone roaming or on my way to a friend’s house.

Quiet streets, fresh smell of gathered grass, chattering bugs, and sprinklers running under a moon. I lay on my back and stare at the stars, while she sat on my stomach, and held my hands. Hers in mine and mine in hers. It’s little things now I seem to cherish most. Her jean skirt, her hair, the way she bites her lip when I make her nervous. Thirsty. Ready. I haven’t seen the moon in years.

I believe the last recorded memory I have of the moon is when it turned red. OSP OCE laundry standing on the back loading dock with my manager. He went out of his way to finding me at my workstation, “Come on, you can see it from the dock. You’re going to miss it.” We stood there for a long time. If only he knew what this meant for me. If only he knew my moon’s memory. | LH

LE’VAR HOWARD IS A PORTLAND, OREGON NATIVE. MOST OF HIS FAMILY COMES FROM GULF PORT, MISSISSIPPI, ATLANTA, TEXAS, AND OKLAHOMA. LE’VAR IS A FOUNDING MEMBER OF THE GROUND BENEATH US WRITING GROUP. HE TRACES INFLUENCES ON HIS WRITING TO HIS AFRICAN-AMERICAN HERITAGE.