Once, long before he developed Alzheimer’s and forgot me, my father offered comfort during a heavy bout of homesickness.  “When you’re lonely, when you miss home,” he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, “look up into the night sky and remember we’re looking at the same moon.”

I sit reminiscing at the edge of a wide, desolate river.  The surrounding forest—dark, dense, yet mottled by autumn’s splashes—amplifies the river’s deep tympanic rumble as it cascades over the rocks impeding its path.  I grab a handful of the spongy, black soil and bring it to my nose, inhaling the earth’s sweet perfume.  I should be making camp, but I’m content to embrace the solitude and listen to nature’s requiem a bit longer.   

I hear the whispering wind approach.  It whooshes through the trees, prematurely separating a handful of speckled leaves, robbing them of the chance to peak and burst forth in resplendent reds, oranges, yellows.  I watch as they dance their slow, final dance with the wind—twisting, turning, floating, fluttering, winding, wobbling—before, one by one, the leaves gracefully alight on the surrounding surfaces.  

One settles on an exposed rock on the precipice of a waterfall.  The leaf reminds me of a man lying on his back, hands resting beneath his head, gazing in wonder at the thousands of tiny candles flickering against the cold, black expanse.  I accept the intimation and lie back in imitation.  And with the cold earth at my back, I feel the homesickness seep through me once again.  Because my home was in him.  And my home is no more. 

The crescent moon wanes, rising above the trees, its pale light glinting off the rushing water.  The illuminated sliver of silver-gray lies at the bottom of the orb, pushing back against its dark side.  In a few days, though, darkness will replace all remaining light as the moon’s cycle ends before beginning anew. 

And in that moon, I see him—his soft, tired, gloomy eyes laboring under the weight of the darkness.

I stare at the moon, observing it abstractly.  Something about its silence and illuminated sliver gives off the appearance of downcast eyes, a celestial rendition of a modern-day emoji.  It’s as if the moon reflects my sadness, my loneliness, my yearning for him.  And in that moon, I see him—his soft, tired, gloomy eyes laboring under the weight of the darkness.  

Remembering his consoling words, I feel him close and a warmth slowly spreads through my body.  He no longer looks up into the night sky at the moon searching for me because he is the moon.  Watching over me.  Reminding me of his presence in his absence.  

Suddenly, the homesickness disappears.  He hasn’t forgotten me, I realize.  

And so long as the moon continues to rise, I won’t forget him either.  For he is with me, and I with him.