Moonlit Shuffles

The house felt like a hollowed-out skull. Too big, too quiet, every creak of the floorboards a question Lena didn’t have an answer for. Her father had been gone six weeks. Six weeks, and the air still smelled faintly of his pipe tobacco and the old spice cologne he’d worn since before she was born. Her mother, Clara, moved through the rooms like a ghost, tidying things already neat, dusting surfaces that shone. Lena watched her, a knot of frustration tightening in her gut. She’d driven three hours to be here, to help, to *be* with her mother, but Clara just kept… busy.

Dinner was a strained affair, as always. The clink of forks against ceramic, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the cicadas outside sawing at the humid night. Lena tried, she really did. "Did you hear back about the garden club, Ma?" Clara hummed, a vague, noncommittal sound, then pushed a stray pea around her plate with the tines of her fork. "Oh, it's fine, dear. Eventually." Eventually. Everything was eventually now. Eventually, they’d sort through his old tools. Eventually, they’d decide about the will. Eventually, they’d talk about him, maybe. Lena pushed her own plate away, half-eaten. "I'm gonna step outside for a bit. It's warm in here."

The porch swing creaked under her weight. The air was thick and sweet, heavy with the scent of jasmine from the trellis her father had built. The moon, a fat, ripe melon, hung low in the sky, spilling silver across the lawn. The shadows of the old oak tree stretched long and distorted, dancing slightly in the gentle breeze. Lena closed her eyes, trying to block out the image of her father in his favourite armchair, a book open on his lap, that quiet, steady presence. Now, just the empty chair. The silence was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest.

Then, a faint, scratchy melody drifted from inside. An old jazz tune, something from the 40s. Lena opened her eyes. It was Dad’s record player. She hadn’t heard that thing spin since… well, since Dad. She heard her mother’s hesitant footsteps approach the screen door, then the gentle click as it opened. Clara stepped onto the porch, her silhouette stark against the glow from the living room. She wasn't looking at Lena. Her gaze was fixed on the moon-drenched lawn, on the shifting shadows of the oak.

The music swelled a little, a mournful trumpet, then a smooth saxophone. Lena remembered. Every Friday night, if the weather was clear, her father would put on a record, usually this one, something slow and meandering. He'd walk over to Clara, hold out a hand, and without a word, pull her into a slow shuffle on the porch. Not a proper dance, just a swaying, two bodies moving together, their bare feet scuffing against the worn wood. He’d called it 'dancing with shadows,' because sometimes the light from the streetlamp, or the moon, would cast their elongated forms ahead of them, making them look like giants, or specters.

Clara took a small, almost imperceptible step towards the edge of the porch. Her shoulders, usually held so rigidly, slumped a fraction. Lena watched, holding her breath. The saxophone wailed, soft and lonely. Clara lifted a hand, just a little, then let it drop. It was a gesture of wanting, of reaching. Lena pushed herself off the swing, the chains groaning. She walked over to her mother, stopping just a foot away. The jazz filled the space between them, the space that had been so choked with grief and unspoken words.

Without thinking, Lena lifted her own hand, a little clumsy, a little unsure. Clara’s eyes, still fixed on the dancing shadows, slowly turned to meet hers. There was a glimmer there, a wetness that Lena hadn't seen in weeks. Lena took her mother's hand. It was cold, frail. Lena gave a small, almost imperceptible squeeze. Then, Lena started to sway, just a little. A hesitant rock side to side, a memory of her father’s rhythm. Clara’s grip tightened. And then, she too began to sway, her movements stiff at first, then gaining a fragile momentum. Their shadows stretched out, long and thin, on the porch floor, merging and separating, awkward, imperfect, a living reminder of what was and what would never be again.

They didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The music, the moonlight, the shared history, it all did the talking. Their feet scuffed the wood, a faint rasping sound that blended with the old record. Two women, one hand clasped, moving in slow, ungainly circles, their shadows flickering around them like forgotten dancers. Lena felt a tear escape, hot and sudden, running down her cheek. Clara didn't wipe at her own eyes, just kept her gaze fixed somewhere past Lena's shoulder, somewhere out in the moon-dusted garden, still swaying, still holding on, still shuffling in the dark.