Grave of Fireflies
Brent Fisher

I miss her more than I thought.

I went through the paces, of course. The plans, the ceremony, the big goodbye: anyone by this age should know the drill by now. My son took me to one of those counseling sessions, where they tried to dig up some problem that wasn't there. They said I was cured, and I don't feel any worse than I have ever felt in my life, aside from my blasted knees cracking when I get up every morning. I can't explain how I feel. I can't be sure how I feel anymore.

I brought out my typewriter today. Sara always told me I had a gift with words, you know. She'd always tell me to write things down, or "I'd forget them one way or another." So I took out this dusty old machination from its chambers deep in my closet, in the hopes of perhaps finding some kind of resolution to this emotional puzzle in my mind. I crack my fingers instinctively, and wince as the pain brings me back to the present again.

I met her in the park, you could say. Quite a pastoral scene, really. The moon was shining, and all that miscellaneous stuff that gets your motor running when you're young. At least, I recall it being a delightful day. Memory has been playing a persistent game of cat and mouse with me recently. Regardless, it was a rather pleasant day for me considering its end result. But I digress, don't I? I tend to do that now. It was late, and she was watching the stars. I came across her lying on the grass by accident, as I tended to take midnight strolls through the yet still safe parks of the city. We talked for a while, and by this point-luckily enough for me-she thought I was rather handsome. There were fireflies everywhere. I could sweep my hand through the air and catch quite a few. Grabbing a handful, I gently cupped my hands and we watched their collective glow together in my palm. We used to tease each other for hours about who fell in love first. I keep expecting a curt yell from the kitchen saying "it was me, you big oaf!" in jest, but it never comes anymore-sometimes I forget it never will again.

I hate when I get all "syrupy". It seems to defeat the purpose of what I'm attempting to do. I realize that she's gone. Sara is dead, and I've accepted that. But there's a nagging. There's a voice in the silence that permeates each of my days now. The voice seems to be saying something, imploring something of me, but it is always so quiet that I can't hear it. It comes and goes, and I feel empty inside after each of its visits. I can't talk about it with anyone. My family half nearly sent me to a home after the minute I event mentioned voices. I'm losing control of my own life, and that scares me to hell and back.

I've become lost in words again, haven't I? Sara wouldn't have any of it, I assure you. Whenever I ran into a writer's block, she'd bake me a hot apple pie and let it sit right in front of me. I couldn't eat a bite until I started writing again. It was infuriating. The hell of it all is that it worked. The blasted apple pie kept me writing, just as if she dangled a carrot in front of an ass to keep it walking. Now and again I pause in writing this, and I can smell that damn apple pie. I wouldn't dare glance up, because then the smell would go away and the pie would be gone. I'm old-If anything, I'm allowed to be irrational.

Its 3:34 in the morning, or at least that's what the clock says. I haven't changed the batteries in a while-I'm still not used to doing the minor housekeeping things. I'm catching on though. I feed the cat, walk the dog, and take out the trash. Each red digit in the clock burns into my eyes if I stare too long. Sara always said I had a problem with staring. She often chastised me for it by mockingly calling my staring episodes the "the thousand mile glance." I usually did this while I was writing up new ideas for my next work, so I took the jibes with a grunt and a nod. If I may allow myself to be sappy again, I'll gladly give up a day of my life just to hear her relentless taunts again. She always was packing the best zingers. You've never lived until you've been insulted by Sara Edwards.

I keep on returning to Sara, but I refute all that I accomplish by saying that I'm finally comfortable with her being gone. I know I am. I'm not despondent. I'm not withdrawn. But I'm lonely. Perhaps that's it. It's senseless, you know. Pathetic really.

Why, you ask? Because I'm not one of those melodramatic shit-stupid dramas I might have caught on TV or she might have watched in her soaps. I have friends-good friends. Hell, my son and his family visit me frequently. My brother lives just a block down the street. My finances are secure, my home was paid for long ago, and I'm the most secure I've felt in years. I still feel alone, and that's what makes me angry. Sara, as always, was right. Writing my thoughts has given me inspiration, and I believe I've touched the proverbial nerve. I'm mad that I'm lonely, for I'm not truly alone. It's a paradox of my soul, and I'm not sure how to solve it.

Then the phone rang. I got up from my chair, hearing numerous cracks as I attempt to ascend the staircase towards my bedroom. I reach it on the fourth ring, nearly out of breath.

"Hello?"

"Dad? It's me, Joe. How are you doing?"

Ah. Joe's is checking up on me. The last time I talked I mentioned the voice thing.

"I'm fine. Thanks for asking. How are you and Janet?"

"We're great dad. Um…we were going to plant some flowers over at mom's grave. I know it's late, but I figured you'd like to…come along?"

God love my son sometimes. Sara and I raised him well: something to show for my little time here. Every man makes his mark somehow; some are just luckier than others. I need time to get away from the writing, clear my head.

"Sure. I'll meet you there."

"Are you sure? I'm on my cell phone, I can pick you up along the way."

"No, that's alright. I'd prefer to drive."

"Ok dad. See you there."

I put the phone down and walk down the stairs, grabbing my worn windbreaker from a peg along the way. I put it on quickly, feeling the familiar contours of each sleeve slide easily into place. She got me this jacket two years ago. Quite possibly one of the most damn comfortable jackets I've ever had. Everyone keeps telling me to trash it for something better. But you can't do much better than with what you're comfortable with. I fumble around my pockets for the keys, find them, and eventually drive away towards the cemetery.

Evening was getting on by the time I arrived. The stars were starting to twinkle as the sun crested the horizon behind me. I saw Joe waving to me from a bit away. Waving back, I quickly ascend the hill to where he and his family were waiting. Before I knew it, Will was already running down the slope at me.

"Grandpa! Grandpa!"

He was coming in a little fast, so I had to brace myself slightly as he nearly pushed me back down the hill, "whoa there! Don't make your grandpa fall now."

Joe was walking down after him. We hugged and shook hands. Janet was already in the process of planting a few roses next to the headstone. She waved and smiled. Joe grinned and guided me over to her, "we decided to plant some flowers. She always wanted flowers planted nearby, from what you said. It's a little chilly, but I think we can put some seasonal ones in."

I nod absently and look down at the scene. Janet did a wonderful job, with each flower spaced just right around the headstone. She raised a flower and put it into my hands, "go ahead, this is the last one. I made a hole over near the end on the right."

Just as she said, there was a small hole in the earth. I cup the azalea gently in my hands and place it as carefully as I could into the ground. It slides in silently, and I look at the petals flying within the breeze. Just then, the voice returned. I can feel it in my head. I shake my head for a moment, but it persisted. Shaking my head caused me to look closer upon the face of the headstone. The usual inscriptions were in place, with the exception of one thing: a blank area indicating my own death date, which for good reason was empty and smooth against the otherwise decorated stone. I stare at it for a moment, and the voice instantly becomes clear to me. For that single moment, I felt at peace again. Warmth filled my breast, and all at once the universe was complete for me in that single, wonderful instant. And then it was gone.

"Dad?"

"Wha…What?"

"You fell asleep. We were over by the tree for a moment showing Will the stars. I turned around and you were lying on the ground. Are you ok?"

My eyes feel blurry, and it's hard to get up. My legs, stiffer than they should be, gently are coaxed into allowing me to rise, "Yeah…I think I must have dozed off."

Joe smiled uncertainly, "good. For a minute there I thought we lost you."

"Grandpa! Dad! Come look! Look at this!"

I laugh, "I think Will wants us."

Janet's voice joined that of Will's in its urgency, "no really dad. You both better come look at this."

Joe and I share glances and slowly climb the other grassy hillside of the cemetery. Just as we reach the top, a greenish glow permeates the ground and air for as far as the eye can see. Then I realize what it was just as quickly as my grandson's voice chimes in.

"Look grandpa! Look at all the bugs!"

Janet looks down into the spectacle, "Joe, there must be hundreds down there. But it's the middle of December…"

I grasp at thin air until I locate my grandson's hand, never taking my eyes off the scene before us. I finally tear myself away for a moment to look into his eyes, "Those aren't just bugs Will. They're fireflies. Aren't they wonderful?"

"Grandpa, are you crying?"

Joe immediately picks up on this and turns to me, "Dad. You ok?"

"I'm fine, let me walk down there for a moment."

I descend into the field of flickering green lights, walking until they surround me. Slowly and carefully, I extend my hands and sweep them around in the air. I cup both back to me and look inside. At least a dozen green glows greeted me from the palm of my hand. I look up and watch the millions of stars twinkle back at me. It was then I realized that the voice stopped. Somehow I also knew they would never return. After a time, footsteps begin to sound behind me, and I feel Joe's hands upon my shoulder.

"Dad? You sure you're ok?"

"Positive."

He follows my gaze and says, "The stars are beautiful tonight, aren't they? You want to head back now?"

"No, you go ahead."

"You sure? I'd hate to leave you out here by yourself."

"I'll be fine."

I paid my farewells, and minutes later could hear their car rumble down the road back onto the main street. I continued looking at the stars, knowing finally that I wasn't looking at them alone.