A few weeks ago, Ben walked into the sliding screen door in our new place. He hadn’t adjusted to the idea of a window wall between our dining room and his sand and water table, or, more accurately, his ride-on excavator. The maintenance guy was very kind and popped the darn thing back into its unyielding aluminum track.
The very next day, my Dad walked through it while talking to me over his shoulder. I guess at 3 and at 81, in the immortal words of Tow Mater, you don’t need to see where you’re going, but you do need to know where we have been. I sheepishly called and asked to have the door fixed, again, but they haven’t gotten to it yet.
It hasn’t been a buggy summer, being very dry and cool so far. And Ben hasn’t been too bad about keeping the door shut as he goes out to the deck to play, and in to eat, and out to play, and in to get another car, train or wheeled thing.
Tonight, just after he drifted off to sleep without protest, I sat in the darkened living room, enjoying the silence that slowly blooms after a weekend of mostly play with Ben. The dishes sat in the sink, waiting for my last ounce of energy before going to bed. The computer was off, radio silent, the television dark (I’ve cut back on cable since the Sopranos ended.)
Then there was a flash of light at a small spot near the ceiling above me. The moon is full tonight, and for a moment I thought some sliver of it was illuminating the sweet solitude. Then another flash, and another.
My annoyance with the still-broken door vanished as I realized the identity of my visitors: three fireflies in search of love had joined us sometime during the endless openings and closings of the day.
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