We get home well after dark. I take Luke out of the car. He is wearing his brown fuzzy coat, the one designed to make the wearer look like a bear cub, complete with ears on the hood. I hug him and point up to the moon.
"Moon!" I say, excitedly.
Luke looks up at the moon, looks back at me, and laughs.
"Ma'!" he says. This is his "más," his "more."
I point and say, "Moon!"
We repeat this a few times. Then: "Mun."
"Mun," he says, proudly. Shyly.
"Mun." He is so happy.
"Mun." If a tiny croissant had a voice, this is what it would sound like. This is what it would say.
And my heart breaks into a million pieces, out of an overwhelming love and the knowledge that this is all so fleeting.