by Edward Herrick-Gleason (and Margaret Wise Brown)
In 2134, Halley’s Comet will be as bright as Jupiter. We won’t see it, as we’ll be phosphorescent ferns around Epsilon Eridani. We’ll absorb nitrogen together in silk-smooth soil… not speaking… bowed down by breath hot summer winds. Right now, I read.
“Good night, Moon….”
Thirty years ago, we watched the blade of Saturn’s ring protruding above Iapetus: we had gathered to see the rings yet again, forgetting that we had witnessed their formation as sky spirits four billion years before.
“Good night cow jumping over the moon…”
We nodded to each other uneasily at the Saturnalia festival; each disturbed by a subtle sense of recognition. Soon, the frenzy consumed us and we didn’t see each other again. Thirty years later, I glimpsed you running along the shore with your husband. I said nothing.
“Goodnight light and the red balloon….”
And you, a flutter of spores, and I, an autumn gust, met on a remote forest lake a mile away from that empty boat that confused us so. I sailed toward the crescent moon ascending through barren branches, while you settled onto cooling waters.
“Goodnight clocks and goodnight socks…”
I saw you nestled in your acorn cup, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. I had gathered lunar soil into my hands and sprinkled it onto your face to make you invisible. It merely made you sneeze and you, annoyed, wove me into the yew tree that still stands undiscovered in Britain.
“Goodnight comb and goodnight brush…”
You, the determined mother dressing me, the obstinate son, to see Caesar… a hot day wasted for that… yours was the stronger will, of course… all that fuss to see a bald head from a Gallic leuga.
“And Goodnight to the old lady whispering hush…”
I was surprised you didn’t fall, you half-mad viper, climbing the observatory dome because you wanted to see the ocean shore on the eastern horizon. I was the sensible one and stayed by the gazebo reading. You jumped down, and said you saw the sea and were going to join a whaling ship like the one in the new book I was trying, but failing, to read. I hardly watched you receding on the horizon. Ishmael was far more interesting and far less aggravating.
“Goodnight stars Goodnight air.”
I brought you that cup of soil that was redolent of late May. “A spring day is all for naught if your hands don’t smell of soil by late afternoon,” you had often said. Mom told me not to disturb you. You hadn’t left your room at all that May. “Your great grandmother is very sick and she needs her sleep.” But I snuck in and saw your wrinkled visage under the quilt. You never knew it because you never awoke, but I dabbled some dirt on your fingers.
“Goodnight noises everywhere.”
I closed the book and gently set it on the end table. Your eyes were closed and you looked as happy and content as a four year old class five tornado can ever appear. I bent down and kissed your forehead. Mistake.
“Papa…”
Damn.
“Read it again?”
“Again? I don’t know if I have the energy to go through that again, sweetheart.”
“Hmph…but, it’s a really short book.”
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