The big moon

The backstory to this story is that one night many years ago, Ali asked me to tell her a story. I told a tale about a little star named Twinkle who lived with his family and friends up in the sky.  Every day, with stardust sandwiches in his lunchbox, he rode the school bus down the tail of a comet to Galaxy Grade School where he had many sparkly adventures.

For a long time, until the stories dried up, she was regaled with what became her regular nighttime request, "tell me a Twinkle story."

Now she's twelve. She proudly pronounces that she's a lot older than she looks.  And for the last several years, she's made it her quest to debunk all the childhood magic, and prove that it is indeed her parents behind it all.

Last Saturday night, as the clouds parted just in time for the biggest moon of the year to rise out from behind the tall fir trees opposite our house, we wandered out to the driveway to stand and stare at the pure white brightness as it illuminated the contrails of nighttime airplanes on journeys to faraway places.

As we looked up at the sky, this is how the conversation went.

Ali: What are those dark spots on the moon?

Me: They're craters formed by asteroids and meteors that smashed into the moon long ago.  It's what gives the moon it's face... you know... the man on the moon?

Ali: What face? What man on the moon? No one ever told me this. How did you never tell me this?

Me: I'm pretty sure we covered that at some point in your lengthy childhood.

Long silence.

Ali: Well,  I guess it makes sense after all.  If Twinkle's mom is the moon, then she has to have a face. OK. Let's go inside, it's cold.

At least a little bit of the magic stuck.