The Size of the Moon in My Eye

My mother once asked

how big the moon appeared to me to be.


“The size of a dime,” I said

waiting patiently

for context.


Her millisecond longer than usual


was difficult, I remember,

to decipher.


She then said, “I heard today

that however big the moon appears to you to be

is the size of your greed.”


“How big,” I asked quickly

while simultaneously wishing I’d said

‘The eraser end of a pencil,’

which sometimes was also true,

 “does it look to you?”



with the millisecond longer than usual pause

she replied,


“…It looks

to me” (and here her tone swiftly flowed

passed a hint of shame,

to amusement,

to ‘maybe I should do something about that but, really, isn’t it too late for all that?’

thus revealing

    the cause

of her pause) “like a Ferris wheel…


“…Does it really,”

she sheepishly continued,

“look like a dime

to you?”


I may or may not have kept my alternate response to myself

since I valued my mother’s pleasure in my goodness

and she was always good enough

to lavish it

upon me.


One might say

that I was greedy for it.

Greedier than the size of a dime.

Or the eraser end

of a pencil.

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