Psychopomp Magazine Fall 2016 - Page 25

Morgan Fox | 25

was the world he left, so he looked down instead of up. So he went back to walking.

Days and weeks and months and years passed him by. Crossed and recrossed by footprints. In time the moon felt as small as the Little Prince’s asteroid. If he thought hard enough, maybe he could will a rose to grow despite the barren rock. He thought about the garden they never planted. He wondered if flowers could even still grow on Earth, or if the fallout had finally polluted the ground beyond all hope. But if animals could adapt to Chernobyl then perhaps she could coax a garden to life. He thought about her.

How did he get here? he pondered one day, back by the flag. If he didn’t know better, he would say he’d always been there, that maybe perhaps his memories were nothing more than a dream he’d had, something vivid in its variance from the rocks and craters he trudged over daily. That perhaps there had never been a train, there had never been a woman. And the more he walked, the more those memories faded, smudged with that fine lunar soot that blotted out first the small details than the overall picture until even he himself was coated in the chalky film of amnesia. When he walked dusty clouds billowed around him and floated like stars in the vacuum.


He found the steering wheel in a ditch, half-buried. He dug it out and held it in his gloves, wiped his palm across the center cap to find Cadillac printed there in silver. Where had it come from? Where had he come from? The remains of some long forgotten voyage, both of them. Had the astronauts of the bygone generation left them when they went home? Home. Home,