Talking To The Moon
Only those who look with the eyes of children can lose themselves in the object of their wonder. - Eberhard Arnold
We were in search of something in the Kaneohe sky that night.
Moono.
That was how First Grandson used to call... (could you have guessed it correctly?) ... the moon.
The night was pregnant with stars. But the moon was lost. Lost between clouds.
Carrying baby boy close to my body, I'd hoist him up sometimes so he could see beyond the rooftops and plumeria trees.
Then we caught a glimpse of the moon hovering just above the canopy of coconut palms at the bend of the road.
Until it was in full sight, splashing its pale glow onto us.
Little Grandson pointed at it and crooned, Moono.
It seemed like the moon followed us everywhere, putting on an elegant show of shape and color. At times, it looked like a mandala.
It never left. It was always there. Watching. Steadfast.
The moon was our loyal companion even as we headed home.
Looking back at it, baby boy muttered in a sleepy haze, Moono.
Then just like that, he was asleep in my arms. His chest moving up and down, his lips puckered soft.
Hasn't it only been a few years back when he romped with Lolo or blew four candles on his birthday cake?
This is baby boy today, towering over us all.
He calls me a midget, but I just smile.
Of all the things my hands have held, I was thinking, You are by far the best.
One whom I love to the moono and back.
No Longer A Baby, Our Moono Boy
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