Orb by Brandy Reinke

Photo by Aditya Chinchure on Unsplash

The size of the moon startles me as I step onto my porch. It is large and high in the sky. I forgot today is the full moon. Good luck. New intentions. My shadow is extra-long across the sidewalk in front of me when I start my walk. I talk to myself like I do, in the quiet of the morning. Is that Jupiter glowing to the right side of the moon? Is there a right side of the moon? Or is it just my right side? Does the moon have sides? I give the tiny glowing light to the right of the moon a wave and whisper: hi Jupiter, even knowing, despite knowing, it could very well not be Jupiter; I could be waving at a satellite.

They say not to look at your phone right when you wake up, but I do anyway, each day before my walk. Your tumor is back. It took your mom three full paragraphs before she said the words again. I want to re-read the message. Scour it. I take a deep breath, blow it into my hands, warm them up, then shake them out a couple times and keep walking. The phone shifts in my pocket, tapping against my hip with each step. I can feel it there, pressing against me, light and heavy at the same time.

The shadows of the trees are short and sideways in the extra moonlight. Distorted, they look wrong, but I can see the proper shape of the leaves at the edge of the shadows if I squint just right. Trying to find their shape in the dark feels like a game, like comfort. I count how many leaves I can find as I go past each tree. Five, then three, then four, then seven. I stop counting at seven. Lucky number seven.

The coyotes ruffle around to my left. Or maybe it’s some javelinas. I’m not worried. We leave each other alone. I like to think it’s because they know me by now. They are readying for breakfast or sleep. I never know which. I like to wonder about that, about their lives. I give them a little wave, too.

Past the coyotes or javelinas, at the end of the long curving corner of the gravel path, I have a perfect view of the full moon. I think: orb, and smile a wobbly, little smile. I love that word, I whisper. I wonder about the message in my pocket. I take some time to launch some prayers, shoot them toward the moon. I make sure as many prayers go up as tears do, down my face. The squeak from the soles of my shoes is loud when I hit pavement again. I try my best to follow my extra-long moonlight shadow down the street. I am unable to catch it no matter how fast I walk, no matter how hard I try.

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Brandy Reinke is an author living in Phoenix, Arizona. She has published short-fiction pieces in: The Redrock Review, Esthetic Apostle, Tulane Review, Big Muddy Review, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Moonstone Arts, and the HCE Review. She was a finalist in Alternating Current Press’ 2024 Luminaire Poetry Award, awarded an Honorable Mention in short fiction in Glimmer Train’s final publication, as well as had a piece short-listed in the Fish Anthology. Her novel was short-listed as a finalist for Unleash Press’ Inaugural 2022 Book Prize.​

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