Two questions for Dad

The full moon tonight was spectacular.
Driving in to church for an evening concert, I had November's full moon as my companion, covered in a light gauze of cloud and brilliant.
I cannot see a full moon without thinking of my father and of his grandfather. I see the full moon and I see the Kiowa princess running with delight that is the legend handed down to my great-grandfather from relations unknown to me.
I see freedom in a full moon and family.
And now I think I see eternity, too.
I wanted to ask Dad tonight if he could see the full moon from wherever he is, but I realized it didn't matter whether he could see it, because I could.
Perhaps the legend of the running princess is as old as First Woman and First Man. Regardless, it will extend forward in my family as long as there are descendents to tell it. Once you know of the princess, you cannot see the full moon without thinking of her. I sometimes find myself looking at a partial moon and eagerly anticipating her full form. She is as much a part of my heritage as hymn singing and word weaving.
I wanted to ask Dad, too, if he had ever heard Mozart's Fantasy in f minor. It was the first piece played at tonight's concert and it has a backstory Dad would have loved. It was written in Mozart's last year of life, a commissioned piece for a man who wanted it as background music in his wax museum. And it, like the moon, was brilliant -- brilliantly composed and brilliantly performed.
Dad would have loved them both, the moon and the Mozart.
And if I could, I would ask him if he had seen the moon; I would ask him if he had heard the Mozart.
And I can almost hear his answer: No, Neen, but I am so very glad that you did.