Moonlit Fissures

The porch light clicked off the second Lena’s car tires crunched on the gravel drive. A familiar greeting. Her mother, Clara, always did that, a small, passive-aggressive flourish that said, 'You’re late,' without opening her mouth. Lena sighed, a breath that hitched in her chest, the kind that tasted like old dust and unspoken arguments. The house loomed, a darker rectangle against the bruised twilight sky, smelling of lemon polish and the faint, enduring scent of Clara’s lavender potpourri.

Inside, the usual ritual. A hug that was mostly shoulder, a quick scan from Clara’s eyes. 'You’re thin, Lena. Are you eating?' Not a question, a statement, heavy with judgment. Lena mumbled something about work, about being busy. The kitchen was immaculate, a battlefield cleared after a meticulous war. Dinner was waiting, of course. Pot roast, thick and hearty, exactly what Lena hadn't craved after a six-hour drive, but she ate it, pushing the potatoes around her plate, the clink of her fork against ceramic too loud in the quiet house.

Clara talked about Mrs. Henderson’s new fence, about the squirrel that kept getting into her bird feeder. Lena nodded, made appropriate noises, felt the familiar dull throb behind her eyes. Every word was a pebble dropped into a deep well, the splash barely audible. There was so much they didn’t talk about, so much that hovered in the air between them, thick as humidity. Her father’s death, ten years ago, a silent, gaping hole that neither of them dared to acknowledge directly, only through these small, indirect skirmishes.

After dinner, Clara started scrubbing a pot that already gleamed. Lena offered to help, half-heartedly, knowing the answer. 'No, no, you just sit. You’re tired from your drive.' Translation: 'You’ll do it wrong.' Lena escaped to the back patio, needing air that didn’t smell faintly of disinfectant and old resentment. The night was cool, almost chilly, a relief against her skin. Above, a sliver of moon, sharp as a fingernail clipping, hung in the ink-black sky, casting long, wavering shadows across the lawn.

The old oak tree at the edge of the yard, a behemoth, its branches twisted like arthritic fingers, cast the most impressive shadows. They stretched, distorted, across the dew-kissed grass, morphing with every subtle shift of the breeze. They looked like creatures, long and gangly, reaching, withdrawing. Lena found herself watching them, a strange calm settling over her. They moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, a silent, unsettling ballet.

Clara appeared in the doorway, a shadow herself, silhouetted against the warm glow of the kitchen light. She carried a mug, steam curling from the rim. 'You’ll catch a cold out here,' she said, her voice softer than usual, softened by the night perhaps. She didn’t come out, just stood there, observing Lena, observing the darkness, or maybe just observing the space between them. 'The neighbors finally got rid of that old swing set.' She said, gesturing vaguely towards the next yard.

Lena didn't respond to the neighbor's swing set. Instead, she pointed, a quick, almost involuntary gesture. 'Look at the shadows, Mom. They’re like… living things.' Clara stepped out then, slowly, carefully, her house slippers whispering on the concrete. She stood beside Lena, her warmth a solid presence in the cool air. She looked where Lena pointed, and for a long moment, she said nothing. Just watched the spectral figures on the lawn, stretching, shrinking, elongating.

'Your father,' Clara finally said, her voice raspy, a barely audible whisper against the hum of crickets. 'He used to say the trees were talking to each other when the wind made their shadows move like that. Said they were having secret meetings, making plans.' Lena remembered. A flash, a fleeting image of her father, younger, laughing, chasing her through those very shadows, making monster noises. A memory so vivid it stung.

Lena watched her mother’s profile, etched in the moonlight. Clara’s face was soft, almost vulnerable, stripped of its usual worry-lines by the low light. The shadows continued their silent sway. Lena found herself stepping forward, slowly, into the reach of one particularly long, spindly shadow from a willow branch. She lifted her hand, then her foot, moving them through the dark shape, making it ripple, distort, making it her own. A quiet, aimless dance.

Clara gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head, but there was no judgment in it, only a strange sort of understanding. A small, sad smile touched her lips, just for a moment. 'Silly,' she murmured, but the word held no bite. It was a shared secret, a moment of odd grace under the vast, uncaring sky, where the living and the gone could, for a heartbeat, meet in the shifting dark.

The breeze picked up, and the shadows grew more frantic, the spell breaking. Clara shivered, pulling her cardigan tighter. 'Well,' she said, the familiar edge returning to her voice, 'best not stay out here all night. You’ll catch your death.' She turned, heading back inside, leaving the door ajar, a rectangle of warm light against the cool dark. Lena followed, the moment still clinging to her, like pollen on a sleeve.

Later, tucked into her childhood bed, Lena could still see the moonlight through a gap in the curtains. A thin silver line on the dusty floorboards. The oak tree’s silhouette, unmoving now, stood guard outside her window. The shadows were gone from the lawn, retreated into the blackness, but the memory of their dance, and the unexpected warmth of her mother’s voice, remained. Not a fix. Never a fix. Just a flicker, a momentary brush with something true and aching.