One

The moon laid a strip of light on the dark ocean. The reflection was soft except for the crests of the waves catching the light sharp and white. The ocean seemed so quiet. “Nothing.” John outlined roughly the shape of the moon. “You don’t think it’s a little windy out here?” He held up his right hand to gesture at the ocean. “Yeah.” John was starting to get the feeling that something was off. “It’s supposed to be the moon,” John said. The wind blew in slowly. It seemed almost too slow. Katy smiled and poked at the moon on the canvas. “Listen to your grandfather. He’s a very smart and wise man.” Katy tapped a finger against the moon. “So are you.” John was becoming more confident. John took a brush and painted a stem and leaf on top of his moon. He glanced back at Katy, who giggled. The painting was not complete. “Bed,” said Katy, then stood up and stretched out on the beach. “You see,” John said, gaining Katy’s attention, “you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him paint the moon.” Katy smiled, then stood, bent over, and started to wash their hands in the waves. John cleared his throat. “There was an it who used to live on this mountain and was married to a witch.” He pointed to the sky. “A witch?” said Katy. “Yes,” John said softly and glanced around then went on. “This it, who was married to the witch, fell in love with a girl named Martha, the most beautiful girl in these parts.” He shook his head. “Go on,” Katy said to John and looked at him for a moment. “The witch found out and told it to stay away from Martha. But it could not. They decided to run away together, and on a cold, rainy night they set out across this mountain. The moon was full and it kept trying to push through. In the darkness they got separated. It couldn’t find her. There was a great search but she was never found. The rain stopped and the moon came out and it went crazy, wild. Inconsolable. Now every time the moon is full it calls for her.” He reached over and touched Katy. Katy thought this a wonderful tale and liked how he talked about the moon. Ella Fitzgerald was singing “How High the Moon.” The music was slow, with a soft, melancholy tone. “Oh listen, John,” Katy said. “I just love this song.” She looked at John’s eyes. “What are you thinking about?” Katy went to him and kissed him. John smiled. He turned. They stepped out and past the parked cars at the start of the path that led down to the beach. The stiff breeze rustled through the seagrass and kicked a little at the sand. There was no moon to see in the cloudy sky. It was the day before John’s birthday. John followed Katy into the house. There was a wheelchair parked in the front room, and a woman was lying across the high-backed sofa. Katy introduced the woman as their wife, Martha. The wheelchair was a little older than what John might have expected, but it was still good. Katy explained that their wife was diabetic and had come home from hospital Monday. They had tried to drive off that day, but a storm kept on coming.