Moonlight has a color all its own. We call it silver, white, blue, yellow…but none of those quite capture the essence of what we see.
There’s nothing quite like the light of a full moon. All the words used in literature—ghostly, mysterious, pale, tricksy—come to mind when I look out over my back yard at the long shadows cast by the sycamores reaching out toward our house, surrounded by moon glow. It’s no wonder that moonlight is a literary device for romance, for murder, for things hidden and things revealed. There’s something about it that shakes us out of our usual habits and attitudes.
I was up a good portion of the night. Nicholas has finally succumbed to his siblings’ wet, sloppy, germ-laden love, and has developed a stuffy nose. So of course he couldn’t sleep. On another night, I would gnash my teeth at having to nurse and still have to pat him back to sleep; I would be impatient when he decided nothing else would do but sleeping with his cheek pressed up against my arm.
But last night, the moonlight transformed all things into beauty. No doubt the weather helped. Snuggling is so much more bewitching on a chilly fall night than on a sweltering summer one. The third time I got up, the moon had set, and all was darkness outside. I brought my baby back to my bed and cuddled around him. It took him a long time to go back to sleep; he wanted to play handsies and squeeze my arm and cheek. So I never slept again. But his little microfiber romper and his fine hair and his silky cheek were a symphony for the sense of touch, his breathing a song in my ears.
I’ll be paying for this later today, I’m sure, but at least in the early morning, it all seems worthwhile.