The Fireflies That Come With Growing Older

On the Porch at 7 AM with My Cousin.

Fireflies have gone to sleep, but we’re talking about whatever ten-year-olds do. “What if . . .” “What if this is the hell that Preacher has been shouting about?” “Where could we go worse than here?” One more lightning bug flickers and burns out.

Two Hours Pass and My Cousin Is Asleep.

Oh, we thought we were so clever—a meeting of the minds millions of miles down below an Ohioan sun wriggling up to meet the crops, hungry and green. We could be onto something but there’s no way for me to know. If we’re right, I’ll meet you years from now— Wherever it is we go.

Dad’s eye pressed against the peephole so long that you’d think he was glued to it; When he turned around again there was a first in his eyes, and he explained then to us: “Your little friend across the street passed away last night.” How does a father tell his young sons and daughters that all things eventually fade—even friends with bright shoelaces and the best screwball on the neighborhood block?

What Happens When We Die, Dad?

He told me much I didn’t understand, but he also grabbed my hand and said: One day someone will leave flowers on your grave each year, and they will not stop until they come to lie next to you. Could we all smile at that setting Sun, or will the clouds forever catch our eyes the most?