Strawberry Moon

To protect the privacy of those involved, all names have been changed, though the emotions and truths behind each experience remain unchanged. This is my story, raw and honest, but with pseudonyms.

The week before I left Swan Valley, I packed like a woman escaping something dangerous, even though there were no bruises. Not the kind you could see, anyway. I had once read that survivors of domestic violence are taught to pack like ghosts: one sock drawer at a time, never too much at once, never enough to raise alarm. I did that. I did exactly that.

Because even though The Hunter didn’t raise his voice, didn’t raise a hand, didn’t lock doors, I wasn’t safe. Not emotionally. Not financially. Not existentially. I wasn’t safe in the way people mean when they say, “you can let your guard down now.” I couldn’t. So I didn’t.

Two days before I left, he watched me fold my life into the corners of cardboard boxes. He cried. Maybe he thought tears could stand in for an apology. That salt was enough. That breaking down was the same as stepping up. He asked me what my deepest fear was.I reminded him he’d already asked, and that I’d already answered. 

“Is it not getting treatment in time?” 

“No” I replied.

“Is it that your oncologist thinks you should stay?” He asked again. 

“No” I said. “I’ve told you my deepest fear.” 

“Is it that you are going to have to reapply for Medicaid all over again and that it’s going to take forever?”

“No” I said.

“Tell me what your deepest fear is.” 

“I’ve told you what my deepest fear was, you weren’t paying attention.” 

“What is it?” He pried. “Is it dying?”

“I’m not afraid of dying. I’m oddly calm about that potential prospect.” I retorted. 

“You’ve asked me what my deepest fear was.” He nudged, as another tear rolled down his face. 

“Ya, and you didn’t answer me.” I said almost half heartedly. 

The hunter sniffled in between tears. “Will you tell me?”

“I already told you what my deepest fear was.” My voice grew cold. Measured. I had taken on the role of the strong one in this conversation and the hunter had turned into a pile of mush.

“Is it that you worry about your brother?” His voice trailed me from the living room to the front porch as I shuffled through papers. 

“No. That’s a big fear of mine but not my deepest. My deepest fear is much more selfish.”

There was silence. I combed through my medical paperwork. Shoved my chemotherapy booklet into my three ring cancer binder. I was searching for one piece of paper specifically. Just one in all the mess. Not to pack but to leave out. To answer his question. The piece of paper that I wrote down my deepest fear and read to him across the dining room table months before. He wouldn’t read it at the time and asked if I’d read it to him. So I did.  A one man spoken word event. I read aloud. Just like I practiced in my head when I was editing it for submission, but there was one moment I didn’t practice. When the retelling of my deepest fear caused my throat to clench up, my voice trembled, and my bravado slipped. I faltered. And half an audible cry slipped through. Just for a second.

I remember holding it together until I finished, and The Hunter’s eyes flicked from me to the paper, as if I were something to be studied. Like I was a branch in the woods that had cracked under its own weight, briefly distracting him from his prey, throwing him off course even if just for a moment.

“Nice.” He replied at the time. 

That's exactly what you want to hear after pouring your heart out. He was cold, distant, and clearly uncomfortable. So, I switched gears and changed the subject.

Fast forward five months and I was looking for my deepest fear in the trash can. I had just stumbled upon it the night before the Hunter’s question. Laid it out bare for him to see on the dining room table. Put it out like a placemat for his dinner. When he brought his plate to the table, he glanced at it and asked, “What’s this? Do you need this?”

I felt embarrassed. Like this was my attempt to manipulate the situation so I quickly crumbled it up and threw it in the trash. The same trash can I was currently digging through to find it. But it must have been the bin he took out earlier.

What does it matter now? I thought. He had already forgotten the answer. The same way he’d tossed the letter I’d written out of the house with the rest of the trash. He hadn’t meant to discard it like that. He didn’t even know it was in the trash. But neglect isn’t always malicious. Sometimes, it’s just mundane. 

That night we cleaned the farmhouse. We’d done this dance before—scrubbing counters, untangling drawers, pretending we were still building something instead of tearing it down. But tonight it felt different. More solemn.

The Hunter deep cleaned the oven. And I set about the task of boxing up everything I was leaving behind in Idaho, so the Hunter would know the difference between what belonged to the farmhouse before we got there and what didn’t. 

I led him to the barn, where my belongings, those that had survived my apartment flood, were stored. I pointed to a stack of boxes behind the door. “All this here, behind the door, are photography backdrops and studio stands. I want these to go to Precious Pixels.”

It hit me as I said it—this was the same woman who’d unknowingly said the words that had forced me out of Idaho. I couldn’t ignore that, but there was no way to repay The Hunter for everything he had done. He had tried, even if it wasn’t the way I needed, the way I understood. He loved me in his own way, and I wanted to show him I appreciated it. I wanted to contribute, to give something back in whatever way I could. Even if it felt like nothing I did would ever be enough.

Packing up the house was like closing a door on a chapter that never really opened. I wished we’d cleaned the farmhouse like this when we were living in it, when it still felt like something worth holding onto. The place was quieter without his brother around, less tense. It felt like we could finally breathe in the space without all the extra noise and distractions. Cleaning it, really cleaning it, felt good. It was the first time it felt like we were doing something right. Everything was in its place, and there was something satisfying about that. But even as we scrubbed the counters and wiped the dust from the windows, I knew I wasn’t coming back. And somehow, that made it easier to finally get it done. The house was emptying out, and so was I.

Out of nowhere, he asked if I wanted to go to the Idaho Potato Museum. A place I’d begged to visit for months. Now, suddenly, it made his list. The night before I disappeared. He’d always said no before. Too tired. Too busy. Too something. But now, the night before I was planning to leave—quietly, without fanfare—he offered.

Like a consolation prize for never asking me where I’d like to go.

He didn't know I was leaving in the morning. I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want another empty promise. I didn’t want another half-hearted attempt at sentimentality that came just a little too late.

A little while later, the Hunter told me the Indian Paintbrush were finally blooming. That he’d planned to pick a bunch for me on his way back to the farmhouse the next day. I’d been cutting flowers from Afton Bitton’s garden in quiet preparation, lining them up in mismatched jars around the house like farewell notes. Peonies with bruised petals. Columbine that looked like they might float away. Lupine standing tall, oblivious. Snapdragons snapping. I filled the house with every kind of bloom I could find, like maybe the smell would keep me from unraveling. Like maybe flowers could say what he wouldn’t. But I knew I would never see the red Castilleja Linariaefolia bloom for me. 

We stayed up close to midnight. He said he wanted to see the Strawberry Moon. They call it the Strawberry Moon, not because it looks like a strawberry, though people always want things to be prettier than they are, but because it signals the tiny window when wild strawberries ripen. Miss it, and they rot. Or birds get to them first. That’s it. Blink, and it’s gone. It's not some tender cosmic event. It’s a deadline. A reminder that the good stuff doesn’t wait around for you to make up your mind. That’s it. That’s the whole metaphor.

It’s the moon of brief sweetness. Of things that were almost ready, but not quite. A warning shot in the sky that what’s tender doesn’t stay that way for long. I’d like to think that’s what we were.

He said he’d wake up to look at the moon when it hit its peak at 1:44 a.m. He set the alarm.  We laid down. We held hands and drifted to sleep. And when it came time, he got up, descended down the stairs, and stood out on the porch. He stared up at the sky, and then came back in.

“It ain’t shit,” he said, and went to sleep.

And that—God help me—that might’ve been the most honest thing either of us said in months.

If you missed Part One of this story, Cracks, you can read it here. It’s where the fault lines first began.

The continuation of this story is found in the post titled In the Language of Flowers.

A blog post by Rachel Smak on grief, loss, and lessons from stage 3C rectal cancer