Papa cried last night. It was about ten-thirty. My bedtime. I woke in the morning at six-thirty, showered and drove to school. The sun was up. The days are getting longer now. It was hard to see. When I got home, mom asked if I knew where my father was. I didn’t. She probably already knew that. We ate dinner as usual at seven, did the dishes and laundry, took out the trash and then I did my homework, staying up later than usual. The night was so quiet. I could barely hear myself think. I opened a window and, leaning out, breathed in the cool darkness. The moon was looking down. It made me feel better somehow. I went to bed with the window open.
I am writing this now because I am trying to remember something Papa had said that night. And in any case, it’s too late to go to school. It was something about a man on the moon . . . . . . Yes, I remember now: Do you love me? It had been a question.