There was a cheesy old expression that Jack’s grandma used to use. She would say “whenever you get lonely, just look at the moon and remember that you are not alone for we all look at the same moon.” Jack was twenty now, old enough to realize what a cliché sort of thing that was. But he liked it, anyways. He liked the sorts of things that could bring people together like that. He liked best imagining Shakespeare and medieval kings and famous poets and Jimi Hendrix and pretty French girls and strong men on shipping boats, all staring up at that same silver rock in the sky. It made him feel more connected with the world, in a way. It made him think about how big the world was, and how long its history.

            Jack enjoyed thinking these things because he was a thoughtful sort of person. He liked philosophy, he liked reading, and he liked being nice to people. He was quiet, smart, and shy. He was still young, and had not really found anything to define himself with yet. So far, all he was was a character under the moon.

            The moon, tonight, was in California. Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Death Valley, along with everything in between. Jack was at a party somewhere at the inbetween. He was, to the dismay of the blue-eyed Genevieve, rather secluded. He was sitting in the upstairs window of so-and-so's townhouse, looking at the moon. He was still sober, though thought he shouldn’t be, as he was so depressed, looking at the moon.

            A voice rung out behind him. It was also a sober voice. It was Genevieve, who was very sweet. Jack turned around. “Genevieve,” he said, greeting her with a smile that warmed her heart. “Do you mind if I joined you there?” she asked. “Well,” Jack speculated, “there doesn't seem to be enough room for two on the windowsill. But I was just about to head on down to the street. You can come with me, if you want.” She nodded, and Jack jumped off the sill and onto the carpet. Genevieve was a bit like Jack, in that she was quiet and gentle. Therefore, despite his mood, he didn’t mind her company in the slightest.

            So as they walked downstairs, he took her delicate hand- which was covered in tough skin from hard work, but delicate all the same (or maybe moreso)- into his own.They maneuvered through the throngs of people in the living room without letting go of each other. They went out the door as gracefully as practiced ballerinas.

            Outside, the street was hot- it was one of the last nights of summer. “How are you, Jack?” asked Genevieve, assuming her comfortable stride. “Never been better,” he said, to which she furrowed her brow. “You are serious?” she asked. He shook his head with a laugh. “No, I’m not serious- you know that. I could’ve jumped out that damn window if you hadn’t come upstairs to meet me.” Genevieve wanted to be a writer, but she wasn’t one for words. All she could say was: “Oh, Jack,” and squeeze his hand a little tighter. But what else could be done, really? He took her in his arms and kissed her. “Oh, Jack,” she said, quite overwhelmed, yet again. He looked at her, expecting more for a moment. Then she kissed him back.

            Her face, framed by her dark, soft curls, stood in his mind like a statue one week later. The long goodbye she had given him already seemed a world away, as did even the streets of California cities, his grandma’s stories and sayings, his years at school and his record player, and the voice of the late night DJ, and the living room TV, and his old tin lunchbox and the library and the lake his family went to every summer, and all of his old friends, the one he hadn’t thought of for years, and the ones that he had just talked to a few days ago. He was leaving everything in an old life, which he knew he could never have back. Even if he got to come back, he would see everything through different eyes, he knew. Eyes filled with dark clouds, horrid memories flashing behind his irises and brimming in his tear ducts.

            Currently, Jack was being shipped off, and was on a bridge between his lost world and the soon-to-be-found one. It was a little bit like a purgatory for him, and all the other soldiers around him.

            Some guys- not many, but some- had wanted to do this. They wanted to kill Asian men for their ideas. They wanted to throw down their own lives for their country's economic system. That was something Jack didn’t think he’d ever understand. He hated the government for what it did to him now, and he hated the soldiers who wanted to fight, because he thought they were ignorant and mislead.

            But what Jack thought didn’t matter, because he didn’t even last a day in Vietnam. He got shot at sunset, less than five minutes after he got off the boat. He fell like a rock, with a solid thud. The moon rose over Vietnam, and he was dead. And all through the night, Shakespeare and medieval kings and famous poets and Jimi Hendrix and pretty French girls and men who had sailed the sea, starred up together at the same moon with him. In one day, he had finished his first and second lives. All of the faces, now etched into the shimmering rock’s face, were warm and welcoming. There was peace in the stars and the sky, where nothing would ever change.

            Meanwhile, on the ground, Genevieve wept in fear, and the soldiers plodded on for America. The sun poked its way into their eyes, tentatively, shyly, and showed small glances of its face, to trickle through the clouds. The people still on the ground turned to look up to it, hopeful and weary. Another day had begun.