I take my son into the dusk, under trees still heavy with the season’s first rain. We watch as the entire face of the moon darkens, like a child with a bad cold. I show him — my right hand, the earth, hides my left, the moon, from the sun, my son. He has a book that shows the solar system, so he knows that the moon rotates around the earth, just as the mom orbits the son. “Where is the earth?” he wants to know. “Which earth?” I ask. “The one in the sky,” he says, pointing at an invisible planet in the fragrant emptiness beyond the trees, the one blocking the sun’s light and giving the moon a chill. “You’re standing on it,” I say. He looks at me, perhaps wondering if all adults can lie so easily.