night-light through the window splashing photo frames filled with faces and “it’s the first thing you see,” my sister says. “family.” she’s lying on a foamie wrapped in pajamas and we’re hearing the groan of night give way to the stars
we’re sleeping over, it’s a girl’s weekend at oma’s … my sister’s visiting and she sees what i’ve grown accustomed to: “the way her children return, not able to stay away, but they also have the strength to move abroad, like trent to korea” and “simple beauty” she says, scanning the room, and it’s a trailer but the photos make it a home.
the other night the moon was so bright and round it seemed a golden apple or the eye of God and i wanted to touch it, parked by the side of the road and tried to take a photo but i couldn’t, it was too much for my camera to hold and
the moon might be magic but it can’t be put in a picture frame…
we fall asleep, and i wake hours later, tiptoe to the bathroom, and oma’s rocking her grandbaby in the blue chair, curled in a quilt,
the light of night etching gold on her face and this is what chasing the moon does: it makes you long for home