It was one of those days where the moon is bright in the late afternoon sky.
I say to my two-year old grandson, "Look, there is the moon, up there in the sky."
He looks, then says to me, "Get it, Arrow."
I reach up as high as I can, making stretchy noises and grasping motions, then I say, "I'm sorry, I can't get the moon for you; it's too high, too far away".
A few minutes later we are playing an interesting game of putting shiny black stones one-by-one onto a table and taking them off again, then putting the most important ones into a flowerpot.
Suddenly he wanders off and I next see him standing in the middle of the garden, like some ancient druid worshipper, face upturned and both arms reaching towards the silver disk, calling out, "Come down, moon!"
