I forgot about the fireflies

I just walked down to get the mail ... which I rarely do at night ... preferring to grab it in the morning after my run. But I have to hustle tomorrow, as I am picking up Lorri in Fort and we are driving to Neenah for Zoe's bridal shower and its noon start.

Getting it tonight also gives me time to react to or process whatever emergency IRS notice or "Jim surprise" might be in there, so tomorrow can run as smoothly -- with as few tears -- as possible.

The walk isn't a long one, exactly. But the nervous anticipation gets me every time. I almost can't remember when I didn't worry about what might show up in the mailbox. That daily pit in my stomach is just a fact of life now ... and has been since you left.

And tonight, the task is extra unpleasant. It's so hot and humid you can taste the air. It lands on your skin and just sits there, clinging like a suffocating, invisible wet wool sweater that is palpably heavy on my chest and on my heart.

As soon as I step off the concrete garage approach and look down toward the road, I see them. Dozens of fireflies darting everywhere, dancing in that thick dusk, blinking and bobbing over the milkweek and prairie grass, Mother Nature's twinkling light show. 

I burst into tears. 

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We moved in here in the heat of July. With the help of Dick and Margaret ... and that W&A semi trailer that had been storing our possessions for months ... we had gotten all the important stuff inside. It was all boxes and chaos, but we made sure our bed was set up so we could spend the first night here.  

We were so proud. We had made this dream come true. It took so much hard work, on both our parts, to make it happen. 

The construction compay fail ... the lies that got us there and the financial hole that resulted ... had almost broken us a few years earlier. We had to learn to trust each other again. We had to learn how to talk about the hard stuff. We had to buckle down and make it right. 

But we'd done it. 

You busted your ass and hit the road. I got a promotion. Teamwork. We promised to never be there again.

This big, beautiful house was proof of our survival and victory over evil. Tray ceilings. Custom built-ins. Fancy countertops and finishes. More room than we neeeded, but so perfectly comfortable. A family house, designed to be lived in. We planned it so that we could grow old here. 

We were so proud of it. And of each other. It had been a project we both loved. Proof of our strength. Proof of our cohesiveness. Proof of our commitment.  

I remember talking about how good that moment felt as we stood in our bedroom, looking out the window and just soaking in the magic ... and the smell of fresh paint, new carpeting, and relief.  

Then, as if on cue, the night lit up with fireflies. 

We were both so surprised. And so completely captivated. Enchanted. We couldn't believe how perfect it seemed. Almost prophetic. 

We watched them. For the longest time. Bodies pressed together, arms folded up in each other. 

Everything was right. Because we were together.

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Do they have fireflies in Texas? 


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