“The Limb”

“How am I supposed to see him if he’s in it?” she asked, pressing that tiny, wrinkled face of hers into the binoculars and gritting her teeth. She had braces now, blue ones (her favorite color), and at that sight, I realized she wasn’t as little as I saw her. I guess she was ready for it. She was already looking more and more like her mother each day. God, how old was she, now? How old was I? I took in a breath of that crisp, alpine air and rubbed her back. It was warm because of the fire, and I knew as long as we were near it, we wouldn’t need the bug spray. Not yet anyway.

“He’s not actually in it, Em,” I said, gazing at her, gazing up at the moon, “it’s a figure of speech.”

“What’s that?”

I sighed, “It means, like…like remember when Mom used to say to you, ‘Come here, Peach?’”

“Yeah,” Em said, never once lowering the binoculars. She was a curious cat, just like her old man.

“Well, are you a peach?”

“No,” she drawled.

“Right, ‘cause that’s a figure of speech. Just like how there’s no guy actually in the moon. People just say you can see a face on its surface.” I repositioned myself on the log and leaned down, closer to her face. “Do y’see those craters I was tellin’ you about?”

“Yeah.”

“Those are his eyes.”

She paused, “Actually?”

“Well,” I said, rolling my eyes until they met with the white ball in the sky, “that’s what people say. People also say the moon’s made of cheese but-“

“It’s made of cheese?” At this point, Em completely abandoned the whole ‘stargazing’ thing and dropped the binoculars to her lap. I let out a soft chuckle and realized that if there was one thing to grab Em’s attention, it was cheese — speaking of which, I remembered, at that point, that I had packed some: both string and cubed.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “I’ve never tried it.”

“The moon?” Em asked with eyebrows raised. Again, I chuckled, and reached into my knapsack, pulling out the cubes.

“Yeah,” I winked, tossing her the zip-locked baggie of cheese cubes, “Why don’t you give these ‘moon rocks’ a taste and tell me?”

A slick smile crossed Em’s face as she popped open the bag and shoved a handful of ‘moon rocks’ into her mouth. I grinned.

“Cheesy?”

She nodded delightedly. I leaned back some, careful not to force the moss-smothered timber to roll out from under me, and peered up into the night sky as only the crickets, the crackle of the fire, and my daughter munching on cheese filled the silence that was otherwise deafening. There was hardly any light pollution up there, and the only glow to be seen was that of the milky moon and maybe a handful of fireflies. I sighed.

It was now time for that dreaded ‘talk’. The ‘talk’ — the whole reason I had brought Em out here.

“I wish Mom could’ve been here to tell you all this, but-”

“What?” She cocked her head like a bird.

I shook my long face and couldn’t help but roll my eyes as a slight smile smeared across it. Victoria was so much better at these types of things.

“Well, you’re getting older, Em. And-“

A flash of light streaked across the sky. Em looked up and immediately pointed a finger into the dark clouds looming overhead. A second later, a second finger formed a peace sign, and she continued verbally:

“Three, four…”

A crack of thunder boomed somewhere in the distance. Em’s hand wadded into a fist, then she turned to me.

“Four miles away, Dad,” she said. I nodded down at her.

“Em, you’re getting older and,” I started, still looking down at her, “and…and, well, I’m proud of you.” I chickened out.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she said. I nodded and stood just as another flash shone through the trees. Again, Em started counting.

“One, two, thr-”

A rumble of thunder shook the ground, and I immediately threw my head over my shoulder and eyed the tent.

“I think we should call it a night,” I said, turning back to face Em. She was already nodding in agreement, so I hoisted her up, carried her inside, and zipped her all cozy into her sleeping bag — which was blue, of course. She yawned and whispered ‘good night’ to me before she turned over, and again I rubbed her back as another flash and roll of thunder ricocheted through the forest.

Before I hit the sack myself, I stuffed the zip-lock of marshmallows into my knapsack and carried it off into the tree line, about two hundred feet away from the fire. On an old, slender oak tree, where I had tied off the rope to our clothesline, I draped the knapsack full of snacks, bug sprays and sunscreens on a limb about six feet or so off the ground. If there were any black bears or critters around, I wasn’t gonna lead them straight back to our camp. Then, once the bag was secure, I turned and started trudging through the open field of high grass toward the fire just as the trickle of rain dotted my arm. I took a final, defeated glance back at the line of nearly-dry clothes at the forest’s edge and shook my head, realizing I was gonna be sporting my pajamas on the hike back to the car.

* * * * * *

I awoke in a hot sweat. Flushed, I unzipped my bag and sat up, the top of the nylon fabric grazing my forehead, which was caked in sweat and draped in my bedhead. I immediately felt the cold rainwater seep through the fabric and onto my scalp, and I fell back onto the ground, into the sultry sleeping bag. I shot my hand across the dark to feel for Em, and that’s when my nightmare manifested: she wasn’t there.

I unzipped the tent and thrust myself into the pattering rain, flashlight in hand, binoculars swaying from my neck. I looked around — the fire was nearly out, and all the fireflies were gone. I called out to Em:

“Em? Em!”

No response. I got louder, not caring if any bears heard me.

“Emma! Peach!”

I was only met with a distant grumble of thunder. Not even the crickets accompanied me, now. I took a step forward, closer to the dying fire, and flicked my flashlight on, aiming it at the muddy ground.

It was littered with string cheese.

“What the hell?” I murmured.

I immediately shot the flashlight’s beam to the tree line. The knapsack was gone, and the distant ground was scattered with Em and I’s clothes. I could feel warmth stream down my face, and I realized it wasn’t the rain; it was my tears. I let out a shrill cry, a gush of breath materializing from my mouth, as I took a step closer to the faraway forest, unsure of what to do as the grass crunched beneath my socks. The pale moon lingered off in the distance, its oblong, faceless face mocking me. I lifted the binoculars to my eyes and peered through: Em wasn’t anywhere to be seen, only the angular limbs of trees and the tethered rope that once upheld our clothes, now barren, aside from a single, black tie.

That’s when she faded into view: Em. From somewhere within the pitch-black brush of trees, she emerged, seemingly skipping. I instantly felt that spring in my footing to start galloping toward her, but something held me back, something that turned that hot sweat of mine into a sting of sharp coldness running down my neck: her feet weren’t touching the ground. My bedhead stood on end as I realized what she was doing: she was hanging there, like how our clothes hung from the line, and through the now-foggy lens of the binoculars, I could see, through my tears, that her face was drooped like a wilted flower, and that the little prance she was doing was nothing more than the thing holding her up, that limb, bouncing her ever-so-slightly up and down like the rattling of a cat toy.

* * * * * *

I am paralyzed here, now, standing in this field across from the woods; a dead fire and flooded tent behind me, not only because I know that isn’t my daughter and that I would never bring a tie to go camping, but I have now realized, gravely:

That isn’t the moon.