When I was little

(only three or four, still learning my way around the world)

I taught my parents how to blow kisses to the moon.

You put your hands together,

like someone is handing you something small and important

(an old ring, or a secret)

and you kiss right where they meet.

And then-

then you rub your hands together,

you press them tight and roll the kiss up small and tight,

push as much warmth into it as you can,

so that it has the strength to fly through space.

When I was little

(just one or two, still learning my way around words)

I told my parents stories about the moon

He was friendly, and kind, and when I was looking out the car window,

he was always there, guiding us back home in the dark

so I didn’t get lost.

The moon had children, and a big friendly dog,

and they all lived together in a huge house with the stars.

I would put my finger on the car window,

and write him letters as we drove.

I haven’t thought about the moon, or his children, or his dog

in a long time.

But tonight, I ignored my shaking shoulders

And my feet

And my legs going numb from the hard ground.

I sat, and waited.

When he was halfway gone,

I sent a kiss to his children.

Three quarters hidden by the dark, and I sent my love to the dog.

As the last of the light faded, just a thin wire left,

I blew a kiss for the moon.

You have to hold it like it means something,

(a promise, the last scrap of fabric from your grandmother’s wedding dress)

roll it tight.

Don’t let any love escape, trap it before it escapes and freezes.

Blow, use all the wind you have, borrow some if you have to.

Send it as far as it can go,

Up through the dark and the glitter and the cold.

You can do it.