It was about a week or two ago. Langston and I were walking home on the curving path that cuts through the apartment buildings we live in. At the end of the path, right before the turn, the moon hung in the sky, a sharp glowing curve.
“Langston, look,” I called, pointing, “Do you see the moon?”
His eyes scanned up, not knowing where to look.
I tried another approach, “What shape is it?”
His eyes landed on the object of their search, “Crescent!” he bugled.
“Yeah.” “What do you see?”
“Moon.”
“Say the whole thing, please.” I murmured.
“I see…moon.”
We stood there together, giggling, as Langston occasionally burbled, “Moon.”
Later, as we traipsed upstairs, I went to the large windows in the living room. We found it hanging there, too.
The next morning was a weekday, and as Langston crawled up to whisper, “Hi-ii!” as a wake-up call, I turned and mumbled, “Hey, Langston. Remember yesterday, when we saw the moon?”
Langston quickly rolled off the bed and toddled away. I heard him in the other room, repeating, “Open curtains? Open curtains?”
For those of you who don’t know my son, this was a lovely thing. Many parents of two and a little more than half-year olds are able, when talking to their kids, to ask them about their day, what did you do, what do you want to be for Halloween, and so forth. Since my son’s being born with severe torticollis, many variables affected his delayed growth in various areas, from communicating to moving. Still, it doesn’t take more than a minute for anyone to be elated, saturated with appreciation and affection for my boy the moment his face brightens with his grin and the twinkle of his smiling eyes when they find the moon.
