"Dad?" a feeble voice spoke from beside me as I walked home from church last Saturday. I looked down to see my son look up at me with large, brown eyes, and at the same time, looking up at something else. He was tugging on my shirt.

"Yep?" I asked, expecting a "can you buy me an ice cream cone?". I looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to ask the question. He was just staring at me--or rather, staring up at something, I couldn't tell what exactly--mouth slightly open in silent question. "Know what, here," I grabbed my wallet from my pocket and dropped a few coins into his hand, "Get yourself an ice cream cone."

He looked at the coins his hand, as if wondering where it came from and what to do with it. Then he simple pocketed them and looked up at me with the same questioning eyes. "Dad?"

"Don't you want an ice cream cone?" I blinked in surprise. He merely shook his head. "Well," I said, thinking of something, "What do you want?"

"Dad..." he started again, "Why does the moon follow me?"

I stepped back a bit, trying to think about what he asked, why he asked it, how to answer it.

"Well, Dad?" he repeated, "Why does the moon follow me?"

I tried to think of something, something to tell him, but only seven words came into my mind.

"Daddy! Daddy!" I screamed joyfully as a kid.

"Yes, son?" he looked up from his business papers, obviously annoyed that his son was disturbing him.

"Daddy!" I grinned.

"Yes, son?" he bellowed, his voice booming and echoing throughout the room. He gritted his teeth, trying to hold back mean words he wanted so badly to say.

"Daddy, did you know that the moon follows me?" I asked, prancing around happily in the room, as if that fact itself made the world go round.

"What?" he asked in disbelief.

"The moon is following me! See, here!" I adjusted the venetian blinds to show the night sky, with the moon up there. Then I skipped joyfully from one edge of the window to the other, all the while, looking at the moon, watching it follow me everywhere.

My father watched at first, wondering what was happening. As it dawned on him, he suddenly stood up and took my by the shoulders.

"What is wrong with you, boy?" he asked, turning me around so that I faced him. I stared at him, wondering what the problem was.

"What is wrong with you?" he repeated, his hands gripping my shoulders so hard that I gave out a yelp. Tears welled up in my eyes.

"The moon is not following you, boy!" he shook me violently, "What a waste of time you are. Damn these kids. Go to your room! Don't ever disturb me when I'm doing my work!"

I looked down and watched my tears fall and darken the carpet on the floor. I tore myself away from his grip and ran out of his room.

The moon never followed me ever since.

"Dad...?"

I looked down, seeing my son still expecting an answer. I grinned, bent down, and lifted him up on my shoulders.

"You see, son," I walked with a happier walk, as my son played with my greying hair, "The moon is following you, because the moon loves you very much."