Fireflies
One night before everything changes
It was dusk. Saturday. I’d taken Isla to get her ears pierced that afternoon, while India was at a sleepover. It is so hard to keep play dates even. But oddly, bartering with two punch guns at an establishment named Shear Madness seemed to work a treat.
On the way home, Isla told me to play the soundtrack from “Wednesday” on Netflix. A show that, rightly or wrongly, the three of us are wholly invested in. “If I Be Wrong” by Wolf Larsen – played during the mayor's funeral – was the one Isla selected. It was seven minutes of slow, haunting minor chords, gorgeous, emotive, and devastating. I was completely blindsided by the capacity of my 5-year-old to know and feel music in the same heartstrung, visceral way that I do. I felt something tender unhinge itself from barred muscle.
That evening, I took myself outside and lay sprawled on the lawn, trying to ground down into something solid and true. Something brown and warm when everything else seems to be breaking, falling away, cracking open, the most terrified I’ve ever been. The most alive. Both, and.
The girls took turns pushing each other on the hammock slung between two trees outside the kitchen window. They mounted the make-believe Direhorse from Avatar Two. And plugged a found yarn strand into its arced pillow head to bond and ride, just like in the movie. They spit “Aye Aye Aye’s” into the air; warrior sounds like Neyteri, the mother. The one they say reminds them of me.
Dan is perched on the deck. Knees bent, arms wrapped around them. Marveling at our creations. Alexa plays “If I Be Wrong” in the background, as per Isla’s unquiet request. A searching vanilla breeze carries a wild strand of hair across my face. I turn onto my stomach. Ribs, hips, belly, prodding into parched earth. A wink of light teases at the grass against the fence. I blink my eyes. Unsure if what I’m seeing is real, or just an illusory snapshot being carried across the meaning of the moment. I haven’t seen a firefly since I was a kid.
I thought they were long gone. A bit of magic, cast into a jar. Lid screwed on tight.
And yet.
A twinkle of hope. A shimmer of nature song. A blessing of Spirit.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I let them water the dry ground. I didn’t let the girls see. Or Dan. Not this time. They contained too much, in that moment, for anyone else but me. And the night sang. And chirped. And my heart beat in rhythm with all of life. And I knew everything would be ok.