I lay on the front porch, fingers scraped and stained from picking blackberries on the fence row between our house and the farm behind us.
I watch the moon rise with my little one close against me. I lazily swat mosquitoes away from him and his still downy, soft hair tickles my nose.
He whispers to me to tell him “secrets” (stories) about when he was a baby. I tell him about the all of the time we would spend circling the back deck or the front yard when his colic and reflux were at their worst, while I would sway him and sing “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”
I would tell him the man in the moon was smiling at him while he cried and I paced. Then, I didn’t think those would ever be sweet memories, but they are.
He asks if we can dance and sing under the moon now, and we do, him giggling as we spin.
Eventually, the mosquitoes chase us away, back to the warm light of the house.
The magic of nighttime during the summer has spun its quiet spell around us and we look up at the moon one last time before we head off to bed.