That, then, is loveliness, we said,
Children in wonder watching the stars,
Is the aim and the end. (Dylan Thomas, “Being But Men”)
“Children use fantasy, not to get out of, but to get into, the real world.” (John Holt)
One day, she asks why the moon is sometimes in the sky with the sun and other times it isn’t. I don’t know, I say. Why do you think? To make it more bright, she says. But the sun is what makes it bright in the day, I tell her. The moon is just reflecting the light you already see; it’s not really adding any light of its own. She doesn’t look convinced. I try again. Some days you can’t see the moon, right? She nods. Okay. But the sun is always out in the daytime, right? She nods again. That’s how you know the sun is what makes it bright, not the moon. Okay, she says. Then how come the moon is bright at night when the sun isn’t out. And stars are bright, too. She isn’t asking. I sit down in the grass and pull her over, roll her down in the grass and her head crunches the leaves, the pieces stick to her hair. You’re a funny girl, I say. She tears up the grass and picks at the leaves and places them on my head, gently. I am not, she says. I’m a moon girl.
The next morning, quarter to six, I move through the kitchen. The house is silent and dark. I click on the switch over the stove for the light, hit the wrong one—the exhaust fan turns on and I start at its dull roar. I click again and get it right; the light turns on. I unload the dishwasher, stacking the plates on the counter, the bowls, too, until I have them all out of the dishwasher for a single, efficient trip to the cupboard. Knives and forks and spoons into their drawer. I put oatmeal into the microwave—cook time three minutes, six seconds—and start the coffee. I turn back to the oatmeal just in time to pause the microwave, prevent the beeping. The timer stops at three seconds and I reset it and the time is 6:03. Funny how that happens some days without my meaning it to happen. Then again, maybe I do mean it; I certainly like when it happens, I like the sense of order and synchronicity, so my subconscious is probably prompting me to turn now, quick now, check the oatmeal. Time’s up. Perfect.
I cover the oatmeal with a plate, put our coffee mugs next to the coffee maker. Savannah moves from the bathroom through the kitchen, her sneakers in hand. She waves to me and I wave back and she is out on the steps, tying her shoes, putting in her headphones, her breath fogging faintly in the light on the garage. I pour my coffee and walk toward the bathroom and that’s when I hear it. In the living room, a tapping sound, then a tuneless whistle, wispy and soft, then the tapping again. I step into the room and she is standing at the big window, looking up into the sky. She taps on the window, then makes the whistle. What are you doing, honey? I ask her. I’m looking at my stars. She doesn’t turn around; her face presses up against the window. I’m a moon girl and I’m watching the stars. I move to the window and look up at the sky and the bright stars with her. We stand together, staring up at the sky until the sun sneaks up the horizon and sends a wash of gray and pink and blue across the sky to cover over the stars. Good night, stars; the sun is awake, she says. Time to play. And she runs from the window out to the kitchen and gets her shoes and puts them on and is out the door and into the yard to begin her game.
The next morning, quarter to five, I move through the kitchen and make the coffee. I get my shoes and her shoes and put them by the door. I put a bagel and a banana into a bag and put the bag by the shoes. I fill up a water bottle and put that by the shoes, too. I grab a blanket from the closet and my jacket and her jacket and pick up the food and water and carry them out to the car. I pour my coffee and wait by the stairs. At five o’clock, almost on the dot, she calls down the stairs. Why are you sitting there, daddy? I was waiting for you, honey. We’re going to go on an adventure. What’s the adventure? We’re going to look at your stars. I pick her up and carry her to the kitchen. Put your shoes on, I tell her. Yes, that’s the right foot. Go ahead. Good job. Come on, moon girl. And I pick her back up and we go to the car and she buckles herself in and I hand her the banana and the water bottle. Here you go, honey. Thank you, she says. Thank you, thank you, she sings it out, quickly the first time and then slowly the second, sounding out the a in thank. Funny girl, I say. Moon girl, she replies. I’m a moon girl. I can see the moon up there. I can see it too, I say. Here we go. We leave the driveway and head out toward the edge of town.
When we get there, I pull onto the shoulder and park. The road runs silent outside the car: we were the only car on the way up here and traffic into town won’t be starting for another half an hour at least. You ready? I’m ready. Here we go. I unbuckle and get the blanket from the seat and open my door. I can unbuckle myself, she calls. Okay, I say. I’m going to carry you out and I want you to keep your eyes closed until I say to open. Don’t open them. Why? It’s a surprise. Okay, my eyes are closed. Good. Here we go. I swing her up from her seat and onto my shoulders and we walk off toward the middle of the field. The air is crisp and cold in my throat and nose and the grass is frosty under my feet. Keep your eyes closed. Are your eyes closed? No, mine are open. That way I can see where we’re going. Where are we going? A special place. I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise. And we’re going to see the stars? Yes, we’re going to see the stars. And I’m a moon girl. Yes, you are. Here we are.
I swing her down from my shoulders and spread the blanket on the grass and it crackles under our weight as we sit down. Okay. Lay back and look up at the sky. You can open your eyes now. What do you see? I see all the stars. Her voice is high with excitement. Her hands shoot up in the air and she points from one point of light to the next. Look at that one and that one and that one and those are all together like a big triangle. Those are my stars. She sings it out, extending the ell sound in all. These are all my stars.
I want to look at her face and see her expression but fear of changing the moment holds me back. I think she is more in the stars than she is in the field; somewhere, somehow, in that little mind surges a sense of wonder. But does she feel it as wonder? Is she self-conscious the way I am self-conscious of myself right here, right now—conscious of the cars passing on the road up the hill above us, cold on the outside but warm on the inside with the flickering flame of intuition that this instance, right here, right now, is everything. How can she be self-aware that way? When I was a child, I thought as a child. She is a child; she thinks as a child. What does that mean? Does it mean simply the pure, unadulterated sense of existence, of simply being me? Does she know she is someone and not no one? Does a child know what it is to be someone or is life itself just me amidst a constantly unfolding present? Does a child know what it is to think of oneself as no one? Lines from an old book spring into my head. “It doesn’t matter where you are or who you are.” “No.” “And the danger is of becoming no one nowhere.” And another one (from the same book or another, I can’t remember): “She is nowhere. She is in the realm of her idea.”
What is her idea, right here, right now? She is a moon girl. The moon swings around and around the earth and governs its oceans and illuminates its nights and departs but always returns. The moon is of the world but not in the world. She swings around and around my world in an orbit of magic and meanness and mystery and governs my moods and lights up my darkness and goes away but always comes back. She is a moon girl.
And now I look down at her. Yes, of course she is. These are her stars. This sky and these stars and this field and that cold outside of us which are all as certain and clear as the contentment inside of me—this is the realm of her idea. This is her world. I get to live in it.
Credits: Edvard Munch, “Starry Night” (c. 1920s), via Wikimedia Commons.