As I hold you in my arms you point to the summer night sky and repeat a word you recently learned from a bedtime story. “Moon,” you say. I give you a bubbly bounce. “That’s right. That is the moon.” You repeat the word. It sounds like a one-syllable prayer, a sweet celestial music harmonizing with the spinning of the spheres. Just then, you become lighter, brighter, like you could rise out of my arms and become one with the evening sky. Night’s clock sighs as it strikes the next moment. I feel us all getting a little older. I hold you a little more securely. As long as possible before the baby that is you grows beyond my reach and you become your own storybook moon.