My son doesn’t need a Super Blue Blood Moon to make an event out of a moonrise. Any given evening can find him with his nose pressed up against the back door, his hot breath fogging the glass as he shouts “Mommy, Mommy look at the moon!”
I can see him from where I’m standing at the kitchen sink, the steam rising from our soapy dinner dishes, and I smile and ask him if he can see the moon’s face. “Yes,” he whispers with reverence.
What is it about kids and the moon? I don’t think I’ve ever met a child who wasn’t completely entranced by it. I remember being very small and feeling like even the word “moon” was magical. Saying it was like casting a spell, and everything the moonlight touched seemed imbued with a storybook quality, as though I was peering into my own imagination. When I watch my son race to the window, I can almost see my child-self running to the sliding glass door alongside him to peer through the frostbitten night.
“Hi, Moon!” He raises one chubby hand to wave.
I watch the long “oo” sound tickle his lips as he turns his face up to Mama Nature’s nightlight, the bluish glow catching his cherubic cheeks and unnaturally long eyelashes. He stands still in a rectangle of moonlight cast on the carpet for a minute, a little elf who’d been stored somewhere in the reaches of my longing for all these years now come to life. Then he darts back to his toy box to play.
I turn back to my dishes and smile to myself, my childhood memories so fresh that I can almost feel my flannel footed pajamas rubbing against my toes as I, too, stared up at the moon all those years ago.