Lyra woke, crying, sometime around midnight. I went in to her and laid down beside her to nurse. I hadn’t closed her blinds before bed, and between the slats, I could see the moon. It didn’t seem any bigger than usual, but it was incredibly bright. Her eyes, I realized, weren’t closed as she nursed; I could see them shining there, looking at me as she nursed and twisted her fingers through my hair.
“Baby, look. Look at the moon.” She stopped nursing and turned to look out the window. “That’s the supermoon.”
“Yes.” She sat up in bed, so I did too, and she climbed into my lap and wound her arms around my neck as we looked out the window.
“Is it pretty?”
“Is it magic?”
“Is it white like the roses."
"Are you my mama?”
“You love your baby Lyra so much?” She leaned her face against mine.
“Very, very much.”
And we laid back down together, snuggled close, my body curled around hers, and we nursed to sleep.