Won't you Fly me to the Moon?
Won't you fly me to the moon?
When I was small, you would tell me stories into the early hours of the morning because I was afraid of the dark. I loved you so much that I pretended to be scared—years later, even when I had lost my fear, just to keep you by my side.
You should have scolded me for clinging so tightly to your frail bones, but you didn't. Sometimes, I blame you for that. I wish you had pushed me away. I wish you had acted a stranger. You should have broken my heart with a quick, decisive blow. But you didn't.
One tale that you always loved was the one about the rabbit on the Moon—a story about a creature who was so selfless he would rather hurt himself than witness a stranger's suffering. Looking back, it was fitting, I suppose. You, who would gladly throw yourself into the flames for me—a wet-nosed child who cried much too loud as I watched you wither like yellowing grass under a furious sun.
You were dying, it was plain to see. And clasping my small hands in yours, you promised that when we finally parted ways, I could look up at the sky each night to see you and the rabbit watching over me from deep in those silvery craters like so many faraway eyes.
I still remember your face from the dreary hours of that little oath. It was the middle of winter, so my room seemed especially dark—the shadow of the coat tree like an angry ghost lurking in the corner.
Bathed in the amber glow of my lamp, there you were. A halo of light surrounded your head, creating an illusion of divinity—of immortality around you, my savior in a pink nightgown. Your eyes were bright, lips turned upward at the corners, but your gaze was so splintered that the slightest breeze would have torn you apart at the seams.
I remember noticing your fragility, even then as a sticky-fingered child. But I tried so hard to forget what I saw—forget the clumps of hair in the shower drain, the greying pallor of your skin, the skeletal outline of your body beneath your baggy clothes.
Some days, the signs were easier to ignore. Trembling fingers. Hushed whispers from relatives. My name—mumbled tens of times from mouth to ear. All I had to do, then, was walk away. Slip the headphones on, crank up the volume until I could no longer hear my heart thundering in my ears like so many furious drumbeats.
When cancer finally spirited you away, I was surprised, even though I had seen it coming. After all, you had been sick since my birth. The weekly hospital visits, clattering of pill bottles, the acrid smell of hand sanitizer. And I guess the hopeful, hopeless, child part of me thought we would always stay together. You, me, and the cancer. A wonderful little family.
I was so surprised by your sudden betrayal that I didn't cry for the first week—not at your funeral nor at my grandparents' house, where I stayed for what seemed an eternity before I was finally allowed back home.
That first night back, I tossed and turned and just couldn't fall asleep. My feet were much too warm, yet my hands were ice-cold—shivering.
As if it knew of my discomfort, the moon spilled its light onto my carpet, illuminating the space in its comforting pale glow. Mesmerized, I slid out of bed to peer out the window at my lantern in the night. It was a full moon. A starless sky. I had just begun squinting to see the craters when I suddenly remembered what you had said all those years ago.
Jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, I closed my eyes. Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me. Opened them.
But I couldn't see the rabbit, didn't feel your gaze. Slumping down to the floor, I let my eyes wander around the room—searching for something to hang onto. Name five things you can see. Four things you can feel.
My rumpled bedspread. Stale coffee left unfinished. The candy-orange capsule of sleeping pills. Dust motes, drifting like lost snowflakes. Everything made bold and accusatory by that silvery glow.
As my breathing quickened, I realized that the moonlight no longer seemed enchanting. It made my room feel clinical. My eyes prickled, and I scrubbed at them with my palms—furious with myself. Why should it hurt so much now, when it was all over? What right had I to cry when you were the one who lost everything—your life, your freedom, your child?
Still, a scream built in my chest. Grief had stolen my insides, left me raw and bleeding out on the floor. Because now, there would be no one to accompany me through the night. No warm voice in my ear, whispering tales of rabbits and goddesses.
Mumma, why did you have to go? Don’t you know I’m still afraid of the dark?
No more feet padding across floorboards. No one would lean on the doorframe, eyes squinting into the darkness.
“又做噩梦了吗, 宝贝?” ¹
No one, no one, no one here. Not even there in the goddamn sky, like you promised.
My hands still covered my face—palms dampening with sweat and the first tears that had begun to trickle defiantly out of my closed eyes.
妈妈，你什么时候回家？我还是你的胆小鬼。²
The scream finally broke through the cage of my chest. And I cried out, senselessly, hopelessly into the night: “God, won’t you fly me to the moon?”
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