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Fireflies in the Garden
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I walk outside to the back porch holding a steaming mug of tea. I sit in one of the deck chairs and curl my feet underneath me. I hold the mug close to my chest with both hands as if it is cold outside but it is not. It is August and the night is warm. The cold is coming from the inside.
As if vying for every inch of space, the stars crowd closely together in an effort to fill the night sky. Closer to home, the fireflies dance in the dark expanse of my back yard. Their efforts to fill the blackness are fleeting, their lights appearing and then disappearing only to reappear again. It seemed hopeless, their efforts. There will never be enough of them to duplicate the stars in the sky.
I recite out loud to no one;
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
I wondered where I got those lines from. A poem, I think. I try to remember the rest of it and wonder who wrote it.
My husband slides open the glass door slowly, interrupting my thoughts. I sigh. I need a few moments alone. He walks over to where I am sitting and rests his hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his hand feels comforting. Immediately I feel bad for my irritation just seconds before.
“She’ll come around,” he says.
I feel tears welling up in my eyes. “I don’t know if I am cut out for this,” I say, trying to keep the sound of the tears out of my voice.
The next line of the poem comes unbidden.
And they were never really stars at heart.
No they are never really stars at heart. Maybe I am not a mom at heart. A mom would know what to do right now.
“It’ll take time,” he says as he kneels down to look into my eyes. He sees their wetness and brushes my hair from my check, softly. “You are doing wonderful, Maggie. We’ve only just started as a family.”
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Will we always be family-like and never truly a real family? I wondered but didn’t dare say that to Sam.
“It will work itself out,” he continues, “She’ll come around. She just misses her mother, that’s all.”
“I know you are right. I’m sorry, Sam, for being so emotional,” I say.
He puts his fingers under my chin and pulls my lips close to his. He kisses me, gently. “Come inside,” he says.
“Okay. Just give me a minute.”
Sam runs his fingers, lightly, through my hair and then walks into the house. The sliding class door closes with the barest of sounds.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
The last line of the poem yanks a sob from my throat. My shoulders shake and the tears welling only moments before fall into my tea. Frost.
I hope he is wrong.
510 words
© Copyright 2008 Ellee Unfettered (UN: elleetwombly at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
Ellee Unfettered has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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