From The Cold

Clara's moon

Christmas day: we went out for a walk. I carried you.
'Calm her down a bit.' 'See if she'll drift off.'

You calmed. You did not drift.

We saw an old, fat, furry cat. 'Owwww,' you muttered, half asleep.
Heard some birds, although we could not see them.
Saw the moon, a sliver in the sky.
'Mooo! Rora! Mooo!' Suddenly your eyes were full of wonder.
'Not just Rosa's moon,' I whispered.
'Mooo,' you repeated, snuggling into me.

Silently, we continued. The cold air of the late December evening taunted the tips of my ears.
You hid your face from the chill and warmed my core, small arms clinging tightly around me.

Further I walked with you, my quiet companion. "Moo," you noted, pointing casually at the crescent in the sky.
And suddenly an epiphany: a knowledge and certainty.
Not just the younger sister, nor the baby of the family:
that night you defined the moon.