The Lost Boy and the Moon

a compilation of bittersweet memories

If you opened my journals you’d read about a lost boy.

You’d read about how I met him when he was running around the city – frantically chasing a shadow that was cut out from under his feet. You’d read about how he happened to jump into the window of my attic during the chase, waking me from a calm, quiet sleep.

You’d read about how much the ruckus scared me at first, and then how the fear turned to laughter as we ran around the little room, chasing the shadow from ceiling to floor, up windows, down dressers.

Sometimes the shadow played with the curtains, flickering them quickly to cast sparks of light in our eyes. Other times the shadow rattled so loudly in old, unopened drawers – spewing little clouds of dust into the air – that even the girl-next-door came in to join the chase.

It took ages for us to figure out how to catch the shadow. And, honestly, I don’t think we always minded. If the lost boy hadn’t been chasing his shadow, he probably wouldn’t have tumbled into my bedroom window in that chaotic madness. He wouldn’t have scared me half out of my wits while he disarrayed the organized attic into a shamble of opened drawers, piled books, tilted picture frames, and pillows flung across the floor.

If he hadn’t been chasing his shadow, we wouldn’t have heard the constant ringing of the shadow’s fiddle, always playing the same song to tell us how he was feeling – to make us understand. I think we got so caught up trying to catch the shadow, we forgot to listen to him.

The trouble with lost boys and their shadows is that boys get tired a lot faster than shadows do.

I didn’t really think about it…the shadow’s energy, I mean. We’d gone on so long – running around that little attic, casting bits of moonlight everywhere to catch the shadow’s image – I never thought about what would happen when the clouds rolled in.

It happened quietly, mostly. The lost boy said he needed some rest…I thought that was wise. He left without saying goodbye, but he sent a letter saying he’d be back.

So, the girl-next-door and I tidied up the attic. We rearranged the pillows, picked wildflowers for the marble vase, hid little notes and books in drawers, opened the windows to let the sunlight in.

It felt like fresh air, summer breeze, piano music, and blowing dandelions.

Then, we waited. There was a place on the floor that the sun always hit, forming a small circle of light, where we usually sat with the lost boy when we weren’t chasing the shadow.

So, the girl-next-door and I sat there again, sipping tea, listening to the birds sing, waiting for the lost boy.

The sun set softly that night. The sky was a gentle hue of yellow, burning out the sparks of sun at the edge of dawn. It was so peaceful and sweet, the girl-next-door and I fell asleep in the middle of that attic floor, leaning on each other’s shoulders.

But we woke up at midnight and there was no moon.

The darkness closed in; the boy’s shadow disappeared into the abyss…growing stronger as the lost boy grew weaker. The shadow became selfish, he forgot the rules of the game. He swallowed up the last, little ray of moonlight, killing the boy in his sleep, and merging with the blackness. So, the shadow and the boy were buried in the clouds of the night, stars pointing to the funeral place where the moon lost its light.

And we sat in that little, warm place on the floor. We stared out the window, watched the sky drown in dark, angry blue. I don’t remember how long we sat there…but it was a long while. I don’t remember if we said anything to each other, but we held each other’s hand. I don’t remember if we hugged when we cried…but I think we were silent, letting the tears form a puddle.

Mostly, I remember it was the quietest day we’d known since meeting the lost boy.

We had always told him we would never leave him alone to catch his shadow.

In the end, it was the lost boy who left us with ours.

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I process things best through art. Somehow deep thoughts, stories, paintings, and piano tunes are the simplest pathways from my heart and mind to the real world. I find this especially true with grief. The snippet above is how I remember the time I spent with one of my dearest friends before he committed suicide.

The girl-next-door is my best friend. We both met the lost boy, around the same time. It really did feel like we were living our ordinary, simple, organized lives in a lovely, little attic, when a ruddy, frazzled, chaotic boy crashed into a window in pursuit of his shadow. It felt like being spun around in a whirlwind of madness, while the shadow giggled and played its happy little tune on the fiddle. It felt like looking at my best friend’s clear, blue eyes, exchanging a brief, silent conversation: “do we help? Do we throw him back out the window? What do we do??”

And then it felt like the quick pause of the lost boy, catching his breath, noticing us staring at him, cracking a witty joke or making a comment about a cat he saw in the windowsill…which, of course, lowered our guard.

It felt like endless summer nights of running around that little attic, knowing the shadow was dark, but barely realizing how strong it was growing – and how tired the lost boy was getting.

And it really did feel like sitting in a warm, circle of sunlight on the hardwood floor…waking up to a cold, dark, moonless night. Like looking back in each other’s eyes – the same way we did on that first day when the lost boy tumbled in – but now the blue of the girl-next-door’s eyes was blurry with shock, shadows, and raindrops.

It took a long time for the girl-next-door and I to move out of that circle on the floor. I think we needed to stay there for a while. Neither of us remember too much about what happened on that floor. We do remember the little, baby steps out of it. They were haunted by the memory of the shadow’s song, a clean room with no sign of madness, and the birth of a new moon that the lost boy had never seen.

But we did leave that circle. With time. I think we carried pieces of it with us as we left. We feel the splinters of the hardwood floor when the night is especially dark, when we look in each other’s eyes, when the windows are open a little longer than usual.

I guess not all stories end with a lost boy being found. But sometimes I still see glimpses of him in the moon and I’m glad the girl-next-door and I spent so much time chasing down the shadow with him. We didn’t win, but it wasn’t our fight, really.

We were just there for company, laughter, fellowship, and little specks of added light. It was the lost boy’s battle, and he had to be the one to catch the shadow. The outcome wouldn’t have changed if we hadn’t been there. But for the time he did spend chasing the shadow – I’m so glad we were able to fill his days with light and laughter.

So, if you ever meet a lost boy – don’t worry too much about the shadow. It won’t matter if you catch it. It doesn’t count unless the boy himself does.

Instead, focus on the lost boy. And just try your best to make him feel a little less lost.

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(To provide this post with a bit of closure, here is a poem I wrote about the lost boy. Each stanza refers to a conversation he had with people he knew well (a woman he viewed like a mother, the girl-next-door, and me (the stanzas are organized in that order)). And each is a glimpse of the places the lost boy knew.)

Do you remember the night
You woke her up for the moon?
You said, “look how it’s shining…
In this night’s velvet blue.”
She smiled and kept it –
That memory of you –
Waking her at midnight
To look at the moon.

Do you remember the time
You found her house on a map?
You said, “I hope it’s not creepy,
But I was bored during math.”
She just chuckled and said,
“I don’t mind it one bit.
I find it quite sweet
That I’m where your thoughts led.”
And she kept it to think on –
That memory of you –
Bored during math class,
Thinking of her home’s view.

Do you remember the time
You asked me about God?
You said, “I think He’s real,
But what if He’s not?”
And you were angry and sad,
You were hurt and confused.
You said, “my family’s not like yours,
They live for themselves.
I don’t want to be like them…
But the selfishness swells.”
And I kept it to think on –
That memory of you –
Unraveling the heartaches,
Of the places you knew.

- Heartaches of the Lost Boy