I step out on the porch; the wind is lightly flowing to the east and through my hair. I climb up onto the railing . I am well aware that sitting on a thin railing three stories above a concrete landing isn’t the safest idea I’ve ever had, but it will have to do because it is the only place I can swing my legs and watch over everything all at once.
It’s just after midnight on Saturday, August 24th, 2013. In ten hours and fifty-six minutes, I will have to quietly make my way to the front of the Lancaster Baptist Church and hum a soft melody and say a last few condolences as everyone in this town throws their flowers into the casket and whispers how awful I am.
And they certainly will not let me forget that I am the reason my sister stopped breathing in her sleep.
This town has a nice feeling to it. It has the enormous yards that manage to stay perfectly watered and perfectly trimmed and perfectly kept up as the kids run across the way flying their little kites or chasing their German Shepherds. This town,has been the all-American classic farming town since the 1760’s (that’s right- this town was American before America was America). Everything about this town screams history: the random Turkey Hill cows, the bricks, even the gas stations, everything. This town also has a tendency to dishonor their fellow citizens’ word completely and make shit up, which I find painfully ironic, considering the sign that hangs on the freeway that says how much of an honest land Lancaster is.
The sky is endless, and I love that. It doesn’t seem to be too flat or too high or too low, it’s just there, watching over me. And I can tell that it isn’t being ignored or forgotten, because I know there are other people watching it too.
I lean down slightly, keeping my balance and stare directly down. The fireflies are back.
The lights on their back flicker slowly, at a calm pace. They’re herd animals, meaning they stay together in one big group instead of going out by themselves. By escaping from their nests at night and traveling in packs of hundreds, they are able to individually protect themselves and avoid most of their predators which cease to escape their dark tunnels by night. I always liked this idea. After living in a town full of people who think primarily for themselves, watching these insects sacrifice themselves for the growth of their herd makes me happy. I’m glad that they evolved to be reliant on one another for their own good rather than making up stories for entertainment.
The porch during this time of day is my favorite place. Everyone is already asleep, their lights dimmed and their sheets pulled up to their neck. Their world is silent and the fireflies can come out again.
It’s August 16th, a warm Friday night, highs in the 80’s for 7:30 this evening. My parents are out in Philadelphia staying the night. Gracie is twenty-three months old today. I’m responsible for her.
I make macaroni and cheese, the really cheap kind from Kraft that reminds you of being five. We go out to the patio. I lay last week’s Sunday comics over the wooden deck and bleached towels over the furniture. I bring out the finger paint and set out six bowls. Gracie sees me. She throws macaroni on the floor, smothering it with her little squishy fingers in excitement. She’s already only wearing her diaper, because it was such a hot day. She meets me outside, her hands on her head.
“Hi!” I say, wiping her grubby hands.
“PAINT,” She screeches, her cheeks squeeze the edges of her eyes.
I laugh at her and let her yell. I grab her by her underarms and sink her feet into the red and purple paint. She squirms around in joy as I lift her out of paint and onto the sports section of the newspaper. I watch her stomp over the most recent statistics for the upcoming season this year. She is now screaming. I play the Beatles. We dance. I take my shoes off and stamper all over the comics and weather section. Gracie bobs her little blond curls to the beat. She dips her hands in the yellow and the blue and slaps it all over my shorts. I don’t even care. Neither of us could be happier.
The sun begins to set. Gracie waves her hands and sings goodbye. She seems hesitant to let go. I tell her she will see it again tomorrow.
“Do you want to see something?” I ask her. She nods. “Okay,” I say, a little uneasy. “But you can’t tell Mom and Dad.”
I lift her up and rest her just over the railing of the porch. “Look down,” I whisper in her ear. Her head drops to her chin.
“DYERDEYES,” she screams. I laugh. They zap, illuminating their lanterns. She just stares at them, smiling.The only fireflies she’s seen are the stuffed ones I made for her in her room. She watches in amazement, her eyes getting bigger each time. She laughs when they run into each other and screams when they dart upward.
She says nothing, in a state of awe. She rests her forehead on my neck. I take her inside and wash her hands and feet off, putting her in her crib as quickly as possible.
I give her Buzz, the little stuffed firefly She squeezes it. It vibrates and flashes a faint little light. She laughs every time. I don’t finish reading The Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar before she falls asleep, her lip quivering.
“Goodnight, Gracie,” I whisper. “I love you.”
I leave her room and close the door.
They walked in her room the next morning. She was still, completely. Her skin was cold. We couldn’t find a pulse. It happens sometimes, babies stop breathing in their sleep.
Of the millions of things I am wishing for right now, almost all of them involve Gracie one way or another. I wish I had let her come to my room and sleep. I wish I had set her more upright. I wish I had done something else. But for the first time in a week, I realize that I cannot.
I decide to go inside. I glance at the fireflies one last time. I hope they’re wishing me luck.
It’s just after midnight on Saturday, August 24th, 2013. In ten hours and fifty-six minutes, I will have to quietly make my way to the front of the Lancaster Baptist Church and hum a soft melody and say a last few condolences as everyone in this town throws their flowers into the casket and whispers how awful I am.
And they certainly will not let me forget that I am the reason my sister stopped breathing in her sleep.
This town has a nice feeling to it. It has the enormous yards that manage to stay perfectly watered and perfectly trimmed and perfectly kept up as the kids run across the way flying their little kites or chasing their German Shepherds. This town,has been the all-American classic farming town since the 1760’s (that’s right- this town was American before America was America). Everything about this town screams history: the random Turkey Hill cows, the bricks, even the gas stations, everything. This town also has a tendency to dishonor their fellow citizens’ word completely and make shit up, which I find painfully ironic, considering the sign that hangs on the freeway that says how much of an honest land Lancaster is.
The sky is endless, and I love that. It doesn’t seem to be too flat or too high or too low, it’s just there, watching over me. And I can tell that it isn’t being ignored or forgotten, because I know there are other people watching it too.
I lean down slightly, keeping my balance and stare directly down. The fireflies are back.
The lights on their back flicker slowly, at a calm pace. They’re herd animals, meaning they stay together in one big group instead of going out by themselves. By escaping from their nests at night and traveling in packs of hundreds, they are able to individually protect themselves and avoid most of their predators which cease to escape their dark tunnels by night. I always liked this idea. After living in a town full of people who think primarily for themselves, watching these insects sacrifice themselves for the growth of their herd makes me happy. I’m glad that they evolved to be reliant on one another for their own good rather than making up stories for entertainment.
The porch during this time of day is my favorite place. Everyone is already asleep, their lights dimmed and their sheets pulled up to their neck. Their world is silent and the fireflies can come out again.
It’s August 16th, a warm Friday night, highs in the 80’s for 7:30 this evening. My parents are out in Philadelphia staying the night. Gracie is twenty-three months old today. I’m responsible for her.
I make macaroni and cheese, the really cheap kind from Kraft that reminds you of being five. We go out to the patio. I lay last week’s Sunday comics over the wooden deck and bleached towels over the furniture. I bring out the finger paint and set out six bowls. Gracie sees me. She throws macaroni on the floor, smothering it with her little squishy fingers in excitement. She’s already only wearing her diaper, because it was such a hot day. She meets me outside, her hands on her head.
“Hi!” I say, wiping her grubby hands.
“PAINT,” She screeches, her cheeks squeeze the edges of her eyes.
I laugh at her and let her yell. I grab her by her underarms and sink her feet into the red and purple paint. She squirms around in joy as I lift her out of paint and onto the sports section of the newspaper. I watch her stomp over the most recent statistics for the upcoming season this year. She is now screaming. I play the Beatles. We dance. I take my shoes off and stamper all over the comics and weather section. Gracie bobs her little blond curls to the beat. She dips her hands in the yellow and the blue and slaps it all over my shorts. I don’t even care. Neither of us could be happier.
The sun begins to set. Gracie waves her hands and sings goodbye. She seems hesitant to let go. I tell her she will see it again tomorrow.
“Do you want to see something?” I ask her. She nods. “Okay,” I say, a little uneasy. “But you can’t tell Mom and Dad.”
I lift her up and rest her just over the railing of the porch. “Look down,” I whisper in her ear. Her head drops to her chin.
“DYERDEYES,” she screams. I laugh. They zap, illuminating their lanterns. She just stares at them, smiling.The only fireflies she’s seen are the stuffed ones I made for her in her room. She watches in amazement, her eyes getting bigger each time. She laughs when they run into each other and screams when they dart upward.
She says nothing, in a state of awe. She rests her forehead on my neck. I take her inside and wash her hands and feet off, putting her in her crib as quickly as possible.
I give her Buzz, the little stuffed firefly She squeezes it. It vibrates and flashes a faint little light. She laughs every time. I don’t finish reading The Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar before she falls asleep, her lip quivering.
“Goodnight, Gracie,” I whisper. “I love you.”
I leave her room and close the door.
They walked in her room the next morning. She was still, completely. Her skin was cold. We couldn’t find a pulse. It happens sometimes, babies stop breathing in their sleep.
Of the millions of things I am wishing for right now, almost all of them involve Gracie one way or another. I wish I had let her come to my room and sleep. I wish I had set her more upright. I wish I had done something else. But for the first time in a week, I realize that I cannot.
I decide to go inside. I glance at the fireflies one last time. I hope they’re wishing me luck.