The Man in the Moon

At three and five years old, my older brother and I ran about the house not the least bit interested in the customary bedtime, that had long since passed, as my mother attempted to conduct a conversation with someone on the telephone.

"Who is it? Who is it?" my brother pestered over and over again.

Frustrated by his relentless persistence, my mother snapped, "It's the Man in the Moon!"

"I want to talk to him!" my brother and I breathlessly chanted as we jumped up and down.

Not knowing that my father was known to call my mother each night from his late nightshift occupation and share their thoughts after we had gone to bed, my mother handed over the telephone receiver through which a booming voice was heard to say, "Hellooooo...I am the Man in the Moon."

Squealing was heard all around as my brother and I finally headed off to bed but, sleep would not come immediately because, as luck would have it, staring down through our bedroom windows was a full moon that just happened to be in its brightest waxing cycle that night.

My brother, younger sister, and I were equally loved by my father but, as a special bond between us grew, it became evident very early on that, in my Daddy's eyes, I "hung the moon".

At age 92, my beloved father passed away and this Metaphysical dream depiction of time passing through the universe captures The Man in the Moon on canvas and in the hands of the female subject.

Making full use of artistic license, I placed a tiny portrait of my father within the celestial orb so that he may eternally peer at me from the interior of the moon. This painting was a labour of love.