Jun’s Shirt with the Moon Inside

Jun wiggled one shoulder. The empty sleeve flapped by Jun’s side. The family bag rustled in the hallway, but Mama stayed calm. “Help, please, little one?” Mama asked. Jun nodded. “Hold the sleeve open. I’ll find my hand.” Mama pinched the cuff wide, and Jun reached inside, one slow push.

Jun pushed and pushed. Nothing came out. The sleeve made a soft tunnel around Jun’s arm. “Where is my hand?” Jun asked. Mama peeked at the cuff. Jun’s fingers were curled into a little fist, stuck in the cotton. The shirt pulled tight under one arm. Jun stopped pushing and looked.

“My hand is a ball,” Jun said. Mama laughed softly. “Can a ball come through a sleeve?” Jun shook their head. Jun opened their fingers inside the red tunnel. Wiggle, wiggle. The cloth tickled each knuckle. A fingertip found the light at the end. “I feel the hole!” Jun said.

Jun tried again, slower. Shoulder forward. Elbow forward. Fingers long like tiny sunbeams. Mama held the cuff round and still. Pop! Jun’s hand came out, warm and wiggly. “There you are,” Jun told the hand. The moon stayed in front, a pale smile on the red shirt.

Jun reached for the other sleeve all by themself. This time the shirt twisted at Jun’s side. The star slid crooked. One shoulder felt bunched, like a pillow hiding under the cloth. Jun made a small face. The family bag gave a tiny jingle in the hallway. Still, Jun did not flop down.

Jun patted the shirt. “Something is turned,” Jun said. Mama nodded. “What can you check?” Jun looked down. The moon was still in front, but the side seam curled like a little noodle. Jun tugged the bottom gently. The twist loosened. The second sleeve opened wider, waiting.

Jun lifted one elbow, then stopped. The sleeve still looked like a red cave. “Mama, can you help me start it, not do it all?” Jun asked. Mama smiled at little one. “Yes. I will hold the opening.” Jun poked fingers in first, then wrist, then arm. The cotton slid with a soft shush.

Jun pushed too soon. The sleeve wrinkled up like a sleepy caterpillar. Jun’s elbow bumped the cloth and stopped. “It says no,” Jun said. Mama did not pull. “What can you make long?” Jun looked at the hidden arm. Jun opened fingers and straightened the elbow a little. The sleeve was not ready yet, but Jun was.

Jun took a mango-slow breath. Shoulder first. Elbow next. Fingers long like sunbeams. Mama kept the cuff round, steady as a little window. Jun pushed, not hard, just straight. Pop-pop! The fingers came out one by one. Jun laughed and shook both hands. The shirt rested on two shoulders, almost right.

Jun looked down. The moon smiled in front. The star was not hiding under an arm. Only the bottom curled up over Jun’s tummy. “One more thing,” Jun said. Two hands found the hem. Jun pulled it down gently, front and back. The shirt settled. Cool air brushed Jun’s neck. Nothing tugged anymore.

Mama zipped the family bag. Jun patted the moon, then the smooth back. “Front, back, head, arm, arm, smooth,” Jun sang. Mama held out Jun’s shoes. “You did not give up, little one.” Jun grinned, red shirt bright in the sun. “I got dressed with help,” Jun said, “and with my own hands.”