On your very next birthday, I’ll give you the moon
On the end of a string, like a golden balloon . . .
When our children were young and birthdays still held the magical power of persuasion that the earth stood still to welcome one’s arrival at the party, we would read these words to them on their birthday eves. The book–among the most precious gifts one can be given–was from Aunt Laurel.
I never let go of a good children’s book, though some of them these days are difficult to come across. Last week, I fished through another of my random boxes of family belongings. (Aunt Laurel also masterfully packed up and labelled boxes during last month’s move, including the jackpot: “Official George Carlin Box: ‘Move your s*** over so I can put my stuff down!'” She has mad organizational skills.)
I found the tiny swirling blue hardcover, Papa, Please Get the Moon for Me, and remembered how our children would love sitting on Jim’s lap as he read it to them, unfolding the pop-up pages with big-eyed wonder, believing that their impossibly tall, protective, superhuman dad really could procure a star for them if that were their wish.