“You will want to see this,” says my husband. He takes my shoulders in his farming hands, large and field worn, and draws me close. “Right now?” I say. Still have to serve dinner, wash the dishes, sweep the floors, wash up the kids, turn down the beds, kneel for prayer. He leads me to the windowsill. I am moonstruck. I turn to find his eyes to find words. She is a harvest moon aching, swaying over the golden fields, womb swelling round with glory. His whisper brushes the curl of my ear, “When I saw it, I knew you’d want to see it too.” He grins, and I breathe relief. I take flight. I feel four again. I am gone, out the back door, across the back lawn, apron still on.