And sometimes, despite myself, I wonder if Savannah feels the same way. Which of course explains the other reason I came to Lenoir.
I stare at the ranch as evening settles in. It’s the first night of the full moon, and for me, the memories will come. They always do. I hold my breath as the moon begins its slow rise over the mountain, its milky glow edging just over the horizon. The trees turn liquid silver, and though I want to return to those bittersweet memories, I turn away and look at the ranch again.
For a long time, I wait in vain. The moon continues its slow arc across the sky, and one by one, the lights in the house wink out. I find myself focusing anxiously on the front door, hoping for the impossible. I know that she won’t appear, but I still can’t force myself to leave. I breathe in slowly, as if hoping to draw her out.
And when I see her finally emerge from the house, I feel a strange tingling in my spine, one I’ve never experienced before. She pauses on the steps, and I watch as she turns and seems to stare in my direction. I freeze for no reason—I know she can’t possibly see me. From my perch, I watch as Savannah closes the door quietly behind her. She slowly descends the steps and wanders to the center of the yard.
She pauses then and crosses her arms, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one has followed her. Finally, she seems to relax. And then I feel as if I’m witnessing a miracle, as ever so slowly she raises her face toward the moon. I watch her drink in the sight, sensing the flood of memories she’s unleashed and wanting nothing more than to let her know I’m here. But instead I stay where I am and stare up at the moon as well. And for the briefest instant, it almost feels like we’re together again.