THE MOON

You are still you.

A wink here and there.

The charmer.

Only now too weak to tell your stories.

I worry I won’t remember my favorite one.

But my fear of disturbing your peace prevents me from asking you to retell it.

My favorite and your favorite to tell when I was young.

The story of a boy and his two dogs, Blackie and Whitie.

I wonder if it was one you made up.

Just for us.

Or maybe one grandma told you.

Somehow the story ends with the moon.

I think that’s why I love looking up at it.

Why it always reminds me of Blackie and Whitie.

And why when you go it will always remind me of you.