Firefly

The policeman had already come. Calls were made. A steady stream of visitors gifted us with their love. And casseroles. So many casseroles.

Brad, Kyle, Ian, and I clung together through that day, the news of our loss unbearable.

We did the same at bedtime, a tangle of arms and legs in our king-sized bed.

I lay awake, listening to the soft sounds of my children sleeping. A pill had been offered to help me sleep. I refused. So I struggled, my mind unable to shut down.

She was gone. Our Claire, our oldest, our little reader, dancer, big sister, fancy dresser, and feisty spirit. Gone.

I didn’t want to disturb my family in their sleep, so I got up. I went to the bathroom. Came back to bed. Got up again.

I grabbed a pillow and went downstairs to the sofa in the front room. The same room where the “time-out” chair sat in the corner, facing outside the big picture window. Claire spent some time there. So did I.

I pulled the throw that lived on the sofa, the same one we’d snuggle in as we read together, over me.

I closed my eyes, but the glow of the streetlight, which for years illuminated neighborhood games of flashlight tag, spilled into the room.

So too did the deep scent of the stargazer lilies from the arrangement my siblings sent that day.

A stark reminder of our heartbreak.

I gave up, thinking I’d rather lie sleepless with my family than without.

With pillow in tow, I made my way up the steps.

Then I stopped.

Something was glowing on the steps.

My eyes were blurry and dry from lack of sleep and continuous tears, so I wasn’t sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

I bent over, waited a second, and then, sure enough, it flashed again.

A little firefly had made its way into the house and onto my steps.

Photo credit: “Firefly on clover” by ikewinski is licensed under CC by 2.0.

It brought a smile as it lit up intermittently.

Typically, I would scoop it up and let it outside to join its fellow nighttime revelers.

But I was too tired and comforted by its presence, so I let it be.

As I walked up the stairs, images of our three little ones running around on summer nights catching them in mason jars came to mind.

I’d done the same when I was a child.

And, just as then, I would have the kids release them before turning in for the night.

They only live for such a short while; it’s not fair to hold onto them. Their lights are signals for love, I’d say. We wouldn’t want to keep them from finding love, right?

So they would open up the lids and let them fly free.

Image credit: “Fireflies leaving the glass” by Elena Schweitzer

I slipped back into bed, finally falling asleep. I woke up a few times and sensed a glow in our room. As my eyes flickered in and out of sleep, so too did the hint of light.

I was the first to get up that next morning. As I walked across the bedroom carpet, I discovered my little firefly, still blinking ever so slowly.

He had followed me up the stairs, down the hall, and into the room with my family.

I picked him up gently, walked downstairs, opened the front door, and let him go.

After all, it wasn’t fair to keep him to myself, I thought.

And just like that little firefly, I felt it wasn’t fair to keep the memories of Claire, her gifts, closed up tight.

I needed to let her spirit go, to share her passion for reading, her joy, and yes, her feisty character with all of you.

And that’s exactly what I’ve tried to do through Claire’s Day.

We lost Claire 26 years ago on this date, right in the heart of firefly season here in Ohio.

When I see all the beautiful bioluminescent creatures light up the night, I think of Claire, reaching out to signal her love.