“Red moon,” he said,
his two-year-old hand reaching for mine
in the dark.
As urgently as my granddaughter
grabbed my arm, earlier that day.
For her, it was the return
of the hummingbirds.
She’d spotted a female
resting on a high branch,
a potential mate preening
his feathers nearby.
Our clothesline, his stage.
Then . . . a flash
of iridescent red,
high-pitched squeaks,
beating wings that
skirted our hair.
Breathlessness
as abandoned homework
danced
on a breeze.
We chased it, laughing.
If not for children
reminding us to be present,
how many miracles of life
would be overlooked?
The insect in a daylily.
Shadows in the woods.
The beauty of a half-dead
Japanese maple tree
clinging to life.
Its unfurling apple-peel like leaves
shimmering in the sun.
Do our heads always need to be down?
Our brains wired and ready
for instant response
to Facebook notifications,
e-mails, texts, twitter updates?
Look. Up.
Find beauty.
Give a child your full,
undivided attention.
And so we set aside homework
to wonder at hummingbirds.
Delayed bedtime
to gaze at a brilliant full moon,
shrouded in a milky
red-and-blue veil.
“Look, Grandma!” he said,
his small hand swallowed
in mine.
Clouds shifted; the moon disappeared.
But not the moment.
The moment of just
being.
He ran down the driveway.
“Moon is gone! GONE!”
I raced after him,
swept him into my arms,
guided his tiny arm toward the sky.
“Watch and wait,” I whispered.
Together, we silently anticipated–
not a ding or a chirp or a tweet—
but the reappearance
of an unreachable golden ball
nestled in the night sky.
A ball my grandson called “Red Moon.”
Yes, we need to be brave
in our writing,
but we must also seek the courage
to be present.