Shooting the moon

We walked downtown and looked at motorcycles, hipsters with ugly dogs, a couple walking so slowly arm-in-arm that I wondered whether someone they knew died. Luke waved to a tow truck driving by and an ambulance that honked its way down Main Street. We both waved to cute passing babies.

His hair needs to be cut, and it lifted and flapped in the wind.

I wasn't wearing a jacket. Or socks.

Winter is over, and things have changed. New stores have sprouted in downtown. It looked like the entire place had a fresh coat of paint.

We picked up dinner, walked home. Ate and went back outside, wasting as little time as possible. We walked to a field next to the train tracks and waited for the Amtrak to go rumbling by. We waved again. Then watched as the trains tail lights floated into the trees.

On the way back, Luke spotted airplanes and pointed, leaning his head back as far as he could. Then he caught sight of  the moon, just a thin sliver tonight. "Moooooon," he said. I didn't know he knew that word. "Yes, I said," that's the moon. See how high up it is?" I set him in the front yard, and he strained onto his tiptoes to point. "Moooooon! Moon, moon, moon!" Two teenage girls walked by, on their way to the tennis court. Luke looked at them and puffed out his little chest and yelled, "MOOOOON! Moon, moon, moon!"

The light was fading. We had to go inside soon. But for a moment, I just stood there and reveled in a happiness that's only possible on a beautiful evening, when your child is small and so enamored with a celestial body he's willing to dance in the front yard yelling its name, straining on his tip-toes, trying to pull it straight out of the sky.