Goodnight Moon

Surely, in his two and a half years of living he’s seen the moon. But he looks at it now like it’s the first time. He knows it, yes, but only from his books on the shelf, the ones I read on nights I’m home for bedtime, when the sun is on the horizon and the blinds are closed. He presses his nose to the glass. The moon is a celebrity; he can’t help but gawk. I sit to soak up his wonder, plant a kiss on his cheek, and point out a few stars in the sky––dim glimmers in this dusky view. He sees them and brightens. “How I wonder,” he says, and recites the rest of the rhyme as if the words were his own.

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