Ze Moon

I live out on a desert where snow and ice lay thick on the caliche, and I am weary looking at red, perky Jupiter out my writing room window. I want to listen to my body. It's voice has been in my ears and in my eyes forever, and I have heard, but rarely have I listened. On the doorstep of the solstice and I am alone. I remember little Jack, on a years ago solstice at Virginia's house on Valverde, looking out the window at the late, late moon rise, and intoning "ze moon, ze moon. Look, look, ze moon." A 2 year old mophead, smudge faced and naked, stalking around a bunch of beached, shroomed up wee hour revelers strewn about a room filled with couches, sleeping bags and piles of people's belongings. Somebody was stroking a guitar in the other room, and the scent of brownies and pinon logs filled the air. I sat on the couch under the big window with Jack and reached out addicted to the texture of his baby skin, those elbow dimples and that face of exploding delight. I bounced him around, got him all giggly and hoarse. It had snowed a lot that night, but the sky cleared late and the moon crossed the front yard above our snow-hatter cars and the leaning telephone poles. It took it's time and Jack was transfixed. The room was dark, but for the orange fireglow, and l could see la luna wobbling bright on Jack's amber irises. That was the solstice, right there, in Jack's eyes, on the couch with the rest of the people lying on the wood floor propped on elbows, heavy-lidded and happy, knowing that the longest night of the year was almost behind us. The moon slid toward the southern edge of the window where it began to disappear behind the neighbors' house. This time Jack asked, "ze moon?"