Hija de la Luna

Title taken from "Hijo de la Luna", a song about the Moon's son.

 

It is evening now, and the pale moon hides, half-buried in spring sunlight. Presently, a flock of sparrows passes overhead; I see them flash their bellies, stark-colored with pastel and white down, pallid in the six o’clock skies. They streak across the sky as locusts sing deeply in the fields by my house.

I am remembering my mother and her deeply sleeping face. It was the sleep of a Chemo patient. Her skin was the color of cancer. It was the face of the spring moon, deep and silver, like a Georgia O’Keefe painting: naked, brutally honest parchment. These paintings spoke to me of strength. Those pictures told me of frailty. I knew her by one name—and I miss saying that word aloud. My Mom.