4 Your sunshine is my moonbeam

It’s Thursday. It’s my favorite day of the week. Why is Thursday my favorite day of the week? I think it is because, as a child, Thursday was always “art day” in school. I attended a small school, and we had art class one day a week—Thursday. And that made Thursday a special day.

But wait, I say to myself ….

You see, I am walking down the street, thinking. And sometimes thinking is the most distracting thing in the world.

I remember how special Thursday is—because of art—and I suddenly stop walking. I turn my head a little. And I ask myself: Why did we make art on only one day each week? Why not every day of the week? Why not make art about stories we read? Or the math problems we solve? Or even the pies that we bake?

At that moment, a child bumps into me. He, too, is lost in thought.

As I said before, sometimes thinking is the most distracting thing in the world.

His eyes are open, but he isn’t looking where he is going. Then BUMP! right in the behind.

“Sorry!” he says without looking.

“Don’t worry!” I say. “It’s Thursday!”

He doesn’t understand. I don’t blame him. I don’t blame him for bumping into my behind. I’m almost old enough to be his mother, and I don’t understand a lot of things either. At least not yet.

Not yet. I love that phrase. There is so much potential in that phrase not yet.

At the next intersection, the boy continues across the street—

I will probably never see that boy again. Isn’t that a strange thing? Isn’t it odd how some people cross paths, but never connect? Meanwhile, we make other connections that have a strong impact on our lives, like the day I met Quang in the coffee shop. That day changed my life forever.

I turn the corner, and I arrive at Francisco’s home.

“So do you have any ideas for your love song for Quang?” he asks me.

“Not yet,” I reply as I pull my ukulele from its case.

Not yet. How delicious those words are in my mouth.

“Where do we start?” I ask.

“Coffee,” says Francisco.

An hour later, Francisco finally puts down his coffee cup and asks me, “So do you have any ideas for your love song for Quang?”

Just as I open my mouth to speak, Francisco’s phone rings. It is his wife, Maria. She is in Honduras. They talk on the phone every day, but they have not seen each other in 10 years.

10 years is a long time. I know.

Francisco came to the United States only a short time after they were married. He came for work. He sends money back to Honduras for his wife and his son. Francisco has not seen his son. His son was born after he left Honduras. His son is now 10 years old.

10 years is a long time. A person can change a lot in 10 years. I wonder how I have changed since meeting Quang.

I know how important this call is for Francisco. So I smile and wave my hand to indicate that I will wait outside. I take my ukulele, and I sit outside on the steps to his apartment building. As I play those four special notes (My dog has fleas), the boy who bumped me in the behind walks past. I stop. My lips pinch. My nose scrunches. My eyes squint.

How weird! I never thought I would see that boy again. Now here he is!

This time the boy looks at me. I smile and say, “Don’t worry! It’s Thursday!” He rolls his eyes and walks down the street. I laugh.

How many times have I said “I never thought I would …” but then I did? The point is, I think, that we can surprise ourselves. We do things that we don’t think we can do. Things happen that we never expect.

“10 years is a long time,” says Francisco, as he sits down next to me.

“You must love her very much,” I say.

“I would do anything for her, but I never thought I would be apart from her for this long.”

Francisco and Maria have been apart for 10 years, but he knows he loves her. Quang and I have been together for 10 years, and I know I love him. So why is it so difficult to write a song for him?

“Tío Francisco!”

“Tío” means “uncle” in Spanish.

The boy speaks to Francisco in Spanish, which I understand, and then he runs off to the playground in the park across the street.

“Was that boy your nephew?” I ask Francisco.

“No,” replies Francisco. “But I love him just the same.”

“Why?”

“His father is not here. My son is not here. But he and I are here, and we make a good team. Just like you and Quang! Now let’s talk about this song that you want to write.”

Several hours later, Francisco yells “Fin!”

“Fin” means “the end.”

He is very excited. However, I don’t feel the same way. My lips are still pinched, my nose is still scrunched, and my eyes are still squinted.

Something is wrong.

“Let’s take it from the top.”

“From the top” means from the beginning. I know this because we are both musicians. We speak the same language.

Francisco has brought out his old violin. It’s like the ukulele’s fancy grandparent. He gives me the piece of paper with the lyrics, which are the words to the song. He closes his eyes. He begins playing notes that are long and graceful. He is emotional. The romantic music flows like heavy water.

Then he suddenly stops and opens his eyes, as if he awoke from a dream.

“What?” I say.

“Why are you not singing the song, Alma?” he asks.

“Uh—”

“Again. From the top.”

The long and graceful notes swirl around me. They are beautiful, but—

“But what?” says Francisco interrupting my distracting thoughts. He takes the piece of paper from me. He clears his throat and sings with much love and more than a little sadness:

You are my sunrise and my sunset.
Every day is a beautiful dream.
Every night is another wonderful memory—and yet—
Your sunshine is my moonbeam.

“Francisco,” I say quietly and with great respect. “This is not my song. This is your song.”