38: Fireflies

Tonight we went to our neighbors' house, invited for steaks (none for me; I am still propelling back toward vegetarianism) and corn, Caesar salad and potatoes. It's the first time we've been over, though we've exchanged small things across the fence: bottles of homebrew mead, seeds from a summer garden. We sat on their back patio, watching Wisconsin fireworks warm the stone barrier between our driveway and their row of just planted lilac sprigs. They have a sweet year old daughter, Bailey, and are getting married at the end of August. Calla lilies, she says, though she wanted hydrangea.

There's something about a summer evening, of sitting back in patio chairs, drink sweating in your hands, watching as the fireflies settle in the gloaming. There's something about sitting at the edge of the yard, straddling stone, running your fingers along the grass, trying to capture that green spark, trying to remember what it was to sit in your childhood lawn, loving every living moment as conversation drifted in the night air.