we drive through twisting roads on the sides of
a mountain, the
flowers that once bloomed there
now lying in their grave of soft snowflake kisses.
the gentle hum of guitar-sprinkled music
drifts into my tired ears
from the slightly staticky speakers.
my window is lined with ice
and coated in condensation from my breath.
the moon smiles from above
casting her fading glow
despite the fact that it is already the very early morning
at that odd time when the sun and moon
compete for space in the sky.
i am seven.

my mom still tells me that the moon
takes the shape of a little arctic fox
who dashes past the horizon
tinted with the golden rays of the morning
and through the misty air
copious with the dreams released by
people waking from their slumbers.
her white paws pitter patter against the
lush forest ground
and she curls up in a den filled with orange leaves
for as much as she loves being in the sky,
she knows it’s the sun’s time now.
i still hold a fragment of hope
that my mom’s story could be true.
i am seven.

my eyelids droop, heavy with sleep
and I struggle to keep them open
(as kids tend to do
because they still believe that being awake
is more exciting than sleep.)
i wonder if the forest-blanketed mountain we drive through
could be the resting place of that little arctic fox.
our minivan keeps sputtering on down the quiet mountain road,
disrupting the once-still dawn air,
my baby sister sleeping next to me in her bulky car seat,
my little brother with a lolling head in the back.
as i drift off,
i think i see an animal dash through the underbrush,
uncharacteristically white,
popping against the dull background.
i fall asleep.
i am seven.