I See The Moon
Tate is sucking on her bottle of warm milk, tucked into my arms in our chair, the one we nursed in, the one we read in before bed every night. I start to sing, an old song my mother used to sing that never made any sense to me. I don’t know why. Tate and I usually sing the African songs we both love from our weekly singing class. I’m more sad tonight than I know what to do with, the tears hiding just down in the top of my throat.
“I see the moon, the moon sees me, the moon sees the one that I want to see. God Bless the moon, God Bless me, God Bless the one I want to see…”
She’s watching me with those big, bright eyes. I hope she’s not taking in my blue, only the snuggle. I somehow believe if she only knows my happy, then she will only be happy. But, as always, that girl of mine shows me just how much more she knows. She knows this song and knows the sadness that accompanies it, tonight, always.
Tate waits and watches, listening contently, then plucks the bottle out of her mouth, and giggles sweetly, “But, Mama. I’m right here.” My tears suddenly release, dripping onto her face, shocked by her intuiton. What this means to me. Both us laughing, covered in moist tears of sorrow and truth, snuggle in even closer. Thankful for each other.
