Touching the Moon

A gibbous moon hung in the perfectly clear blue sky of a perfect late summer day, a storybook kind of day with a light breeze and a touch of autumn in the air.

"Can you see the moon?" she asked her small son as he lay on the lush green grass staring at blue nothingness. She wished for fluffy white clouds so they could lie together and name their shapes.

"I see it. Is it too high for me to touch?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"Because I tried to touch it once," she said.

She answered that way because she didn't know what else to say. But it sounded, anyway, like something she would have done as a young dreamer. She remembers wanting to skip along the tops of clouds, so why not touch the moon?

"And you couldn't do it?" he asked.

"No."

"And you cried?"

"Yes.

He stared longer at the luminous orb rising farther out of his reach and said, "I wish you never tried to touch the moon."