It was summer when my son turned three. We sat together on our lawn. He’d just finished a popsicle, with a faint red stain around his mouth. Suddenly he pointed up at the moon. “Mommy, do you want it? I’ll pick it for you.”
“Sure,” I said.
He scrambled to his feet and ran to the fence. Standing on tiptoes, he stretched his arms high, but it was out of reach. Next he headed for the small maple tree in the yard. He hugged the trunk and tried to climb, yet still could not reach.
He stood there, gazing up at the moon for a long moment. Then he walked back to me, empty-handed, and said earnestly, “It’s too high tonight. I’ll grow taller and try again tomorrow.”
I nodded.
The next evening, the first thing he said after getting home from preschool was, “I’m going to get the moon.” He took my hand and led me back to the lawn for another try. Still no luck.
He thought for a second, then fetched his little blue step stool. He set it on the grass and stood on top, arms outstretched. The moon remained far away. He carried the stool back inside, then dragged a tall dining chair out to the yard all by himself. I watched quietly and did not offer help.
He climbed up to the highest step and stretched every inch of his body.
He could not reach it.
He looked down at me. “The moon is so far away.” “Yes, it is,” I replied.
He climbed down, brushed grass off his knees. “I’ll try again when I grow up.” With that, he ran off to watch his cartoon show Bluey.
I forgot to bring the dining chair indoors, so it stayed on the lawn all night. When I got up for a drink after midnight, I glanced out the window. Moonlight fell soft on the chair, with his little blue jacket draped over the back.
The next morning, he paused by the chair on his way to school and took his jacket away. Later, I moved the chair back to the kitchen.
For a long time after that, whenever I sat eating meals in this chair, I would look up toward the window now and then.
The moon was always there.
