Up To The Moon and Back
It is pure and perfect and bigger than the sky.
Her arms open wide and her eyes open wider and her smile stretches broader than the track of the moon across the dark hours between dusk and dawn, her slight body transformed into a projectile of pure intent and energy and wild, untamed emotion — launching wthout hesitation from the great, pendulum arcs of that distant swingset, where her legs had pumped like steady pistons in an engine fueled by the high, giddy notes of her laughter and the thrilling collision of warm, heavy air against her skin, and now she isn't running as much as flying over the field, the earth fleeing beneath her as she accelerates and her small black sneakers brush across the grass in a delirious, energized strum, the fretboard ringing with clear and pitchperfect arpeggios that spiral and intertwine and soar heavenward like the tendrils of dust and pollen that erupt with her every step, an intricate double-helix of fleeting memory and infinite wonder that catch the light for half a heartbeat, then vanish forever.
Her hair is straw spinning to gold, an alchemy that defies genetics and logic but one that inspires my weak heart to something like hope, and as she moves it sweeps and rises and spreads in radiant tangents like a flood of light borne on solar winds, a halo effect that rings the piercing blue of those huge eyes - her mother's eyes, in shape, depth and glory, but a startling blue shocked brilliant and crystalline and priceless in its clarity - without ever masking the wicked streak hidden within that smile. It is a streak that does not transform perfection to flaw, but that rather refines it to a state that defies easy categorization, addes depth and dimension, and introduces an element of the unexpected. In those fleeting moments when I see myself, it is there, but
she is herself, entirely, a ferocious, tiny creature of strange humors and immense passions whose capacity for love could fill the oceans five times over and still surge unspent, a lunar force with the emotional gravitation to shift the course of tides and wind currents, disippating the gathered clouds and unveiling the infinite stretch of space that lies beyond. She is a sprite, a rapscallion thing of mischief and odd plots, her cackling laugh infectious and irrisistable and even now, across the field, I can hear it embedded in the notes between the notes in her voice as it
lifts with effortless, wordless joy as she draws closer and closer and the cares of the day fall away, hers and mine, those lives and concerns that have consumed the hours forgotten as the distance closes and the world turns a blur and her arms are thrown wide and she is glee and giddiness and sweaty, sweet-smelling excitement and I can hear her laughing and
for a second, I wonder if this is how it is to be the sun
the center of the universe
and in moments this moment will pass and we will move on and this afternoon, these long seconds of grass and pollen and sunlight and the heedless, headlong, exhuberant rush forward will recede with the tide, a great wave crashing and then drifting back into the vast expanse of salt, water and steady motion, and this will all be forgoten
but suddenly she is here and I am here and she is weightless in my arms and she is squeezing my shoulders with all the strength her slender arms can create and she is saying my name, the only name she has ever known for me, over and over and over, and I am so grateful and unworthy and humbled and it is pure and it is perfect and something bigger than the sky fills me and I only wish I had the words to say what I feel.