"Moon" was my daughter's first word. I thought it was "thank you" until my husband pointed out that the little squeak she'd been making for the past few months was her saying "moon." I didn't believe him, so he took us out to the night sky and we watched as our daughter pointed up and squeaked, "Moon." Moon. La luna. Moon. Thank-you. I remember standing outside one of the many San Francisco apartments that became my temporary home after leaving my own home. It was always nighttime (when things were dark and quiet—quiet, at least along the residential streets). I started smoking cigarettes because I liked the tingly sensation I'd feel in my lungs during a time when I couldn't feel anything. Inhale. I'd look up at the moon, filling my lungs with smoke. Exhale. Releasing the tingly sensation. Inhale, thanking the moon for its stability. Exhale, letting go of my pain. Moon. Thank-you. Moon. La Luna. Moon. Selene. Selene. God, how I began to resent God. How I only began to feel God again when God became Selene, a feminine deity. A goddess. The feminine, the female that came out of me, the daughter I made who made me question everything about my existence, and hers. Selene, the moon, seemed too bright a satellite in the dark night sky to allow me to believe a supernatural place like hell could ever exist, other than the hell that already exists on Earth. Moon. Thank-you. Moon. My grounding. My savior. My selene. My daughter. My love. "Moon," she points. "Moon," I say. "Nigh-night, moon," she yells. "Nigh-night, moon," I whisper. I feel her heart beating against mine, her lungs filling with cool, night air. I tell her to inhale, she inhales, we exhale, she laughs. "Moon." "Moon." "Thank you." I feel. I feel.
Time is ancient.
I wrote the above poem over three years ago. Or was it yesterday? How am I now holding a second baby when I was just holding my first?
Today as we kicked up dirt and rocks along the trail, she asked if I could hold her.
“No,” I replied.
I was tired, she was tired.
But around the next bend, realizing that soon I wouldn’t be able to carry the weight of her body—though I’ll carry the weight of her world as long as I’m able—I asked her to jump on the bench and hop onto my back, her arms wrapping tightly around me, too tight around my neck, my arms wrapping around her legs, never wanting to let go.
Where does time go? Why aren’t we able to enter the portal backwards? I see it as a tunnel, the train roaring through it as the other end grows dimmer, just as we grow dimmer.
I try to be present, to savor what is, like on those days we were kids in the sun, knees dirty and bloody from tipping over on our bikes as we sat eating popsicles. Time felt unimaginable. Long. Something that would never come.
And so I’d walk 10 yards ahead of my parents, hoping that anyone passing us would see me on my own, as an adult, like them, and not with my family behind me, just as I now watch my daughter do the same. It’s only been five years since she left my body and already, she doesn’t want to hold my hand.
So when she finally asks, will you hold me, I hold her.
I hold her as if time is a slippery fish waiting to dive into the deep ocean.
So, so beautiful Kim. According to my mother, moon was also my first word almost 68 years ago, though she says I pronounced it "boon" :) I will think of your little as I observe the full moon tonight, and shall call it Selene...