He parts the curtain, his round, little head finding a perfect opening, and steps in closer. He needed to get a better view of the early morning landscape. I watch from my sideways perch, smiling at his hand pushing the heavy drape gently.
“There’s a moon,” he says, and looks back at me. His sweet face partially covered by the window’s cerulean dress; the one I’m still on the fence about.
“A moon?” I speak in stage whispers, not wanting to wake the over-worked husband attached by the face to his pillow.
“Yes,” he says. “There’s a moon right there.” He juts his finger out and taps the widow lightly to add an accent to his statement, I suppose.
Is it the bird house? Does it look like a moon in this morning light? Maybe there’s something stuck in one of the trees?
I peel back the covers. It’s my turn to get up. By default, actually. The husband worked until some ungodly hour. Close week at his magazine, so he wins the “sleep in,” without question. The Youngster is still looking out on the backyard, clearly impressed by this so-called moon. I join him at the window …
Well, well. There it is …
A moon. There’s a moon in the morning.
“The moon is for night,” he says, his voiced soaked in curiosity.
I usher him out of the room. “That’s true. The moon is for night.”
But there it is in the daylight.
He wants to check on the moon from other windows in the house, make sure it’s still sitting there high in the clear sky. So we move from one window to another.
“It’s cool, right?” he says. I laugh, loud, forgetting about my earlier commitment to quiet.
“Yes, it’s pretty cool, dumpling.” I say, running my finger under his warm chin. And then it dawns on me: I’m going to have to know things, aren’t I? I’m going to need to reacquaint myself with all those peculiarities, those hallmarks that make this globe and the things on it infinitely interesting. Like this moon in the daytime. It has to do with orbit and reflecting light. Thanks be to Google for cutting through the cobwebs around the astronomy “filing cabinet” in my brain.
We watch the day moon for a little while longer before moving on to some books and trucks in his room. Shortly after that, I get his breakfast (cereal and toast) together and he sits at the kitchen table, his spoon angled and ready. I see the thought flash across his forehead before he even forms his mouth to speak it.
“The moon is not there now,” he says.
“No, it’s gone, bud.”
“We see that moon at night,” he says, certain, not asking.
“We probably will,” I say, melting.
“Yes.” He scoops up some cereal. “Probably.”