The wind blew through her hair, making her dark curls dance in front of her face as she ran joyfully toward me.


“Grandma! Grandma!” Her voice was distant, but audible, and I watched as she drew closer, her tiny legs and her momentum guiding her faster and faster down the hill that led to where I sat by the lake. As she neared the bottom of the slope, she attempted to slow her pace, but the momentum she’d gained continued to propel her forward until her foot caught on a log and she fell onto her stomach, an object rolling out of her grasp.


“Honey,” I called, worried. “Are you okay?” I began to rise from my spot on the bench. My motherly instincts made me ready to run over, pick her up, and kiss any boo-boos she might have, but before I could take two steps toward her, she jumped back up to her feet. She scampered over to whatever it was she had dropped upon her fall, picked it up, and then continued her run toward me.


I smiled. Nothing could keep her down. Not a bad mood, not a sad story, not even a log on the ground. I used to be like that. I used to be able to ignore all the bad things, to forget about them and pretend they didn’t exist. But they caught up to me, all those bad things, and we collided head on, and I came face to face with what I dreaded most—sickness, pain, and loss. That last one was the worst. Never did I expect that I could miss someone so bad, but I did. I missed his hugs and his kisses; I missed his arms around me, comforting me; I missed the sound of his laugh, a sound so contagious that it was impossible not to join in—no matter how hard you tried. But most of all, I missed just having Deene next to me.


But sickness took us away from each other, so I came here—to our old home at the lake—where we had shared our lives back when we both still had them. And now, our family lived here, making new memories of their own each day.


My granddaughter ran into me, a wide smile on her face as she held up what she was holding so I could see. It was a jar. A simple glass mason jar with multiple small holes poked in the lid.


I reached down and took it from her, noticing as I did the small lights that flickered on and off inside the jar. “Well, well, well,” I said, pretending to be carefully inspecting the jar. “What’s this?”


“They’re my lightning bugs!” She exclaimed, bouncing up and down on her toes. “I caught them all by myself!”


Her smile radiated all her pride and joy, reminding me so much of her grandfather’s smiles, and I smiled back instantly. “All by yourself? That’s amazing, Tali!”


My words must have excited her even more because she threw her arms around my legs, hugging me. When she pulled away, she hopped over to the bench and sat down, her legs swinging freely over the edge. I sat back down beside her, and she took the jar from my hands, raising it to her face so she could watch the fireflies light up one by one.


“Grandma, why do they light their butts up?” She asked bluntly.


I laughed. “What? You never heard Grandpa Deene’s story?”


She shook her head, and then, placing her firefly jar gently on her lap, she looked up at me, patiently awaiting the story to come.


“Well,” I began, “You know how you get scared of the dark sometimes?”


“Yeah,” Tali replied, confused.


“Well, lightning bugs are like angels, and they protect us from what scares us. The lightning bugs glow because they know you are scared of the dark, and when you see their light, they’re letting you know everything’s okay and you don’t need to be scared anymore. They’ll fly down out of the night sky to be with you whenever you’re scared or even when you’re not, like now. But they’ll always be your guardians of the night, Tali.”


“They’ll come out of the sky? Really?” She asked, incredulous.


“Of course. They’re the ones that light up the stars, so they’re always watching over you even when you don’t see them right next to you,” I replied.


Tali’s gaze turned up toward the sky. “Those are all my lightning bugs? All of them?” She whispered, staring at the stars, as an expression of complete and utter wonder spread across her face.


Her expression exactly mimicked that of her mother Arla’s all those years ago when Deene and I had first told the story. Arla had had a horrible fear of the dark as a little girl, and when she began losing sleep over it, Deene and I had decided to quell our daughter’s fears with a wondrous story about her very own guardians of the night. Thankfully—and quite unexpectedly—it worked. I was actually very surprised that Arla hadn’t told the story to her daughter yet, considering how Tali feared the dark, too.


“Wow,” Tali sighed, looking down into her jar. She grabbed the lid and loosened it until she was able to remove it, allowing her guardians to fly free. “Fly, buggies,” she whispered to them, and one by one each firefly flew slowly out of the opening, lighting up as they went.


I smiled down at her. I never liked seeing those poor bugs trapped in a jar.


“Tali!” A familiar voice called from the hill. “Tali! Time to come inside!” The voice was getting closer and closer until finally the source of the sound stood beside our bench. “Tali, it’s time for bed.”


I turned my head to see my daughter, Arla, looking lovingly down at her daughter. And even though I sat beside Tali, Arla couldn’t see me; her gaze simply saw through me.


“Okay, Mommy,” Tali said obediently, hopping off the bench and walking toward her mother. But she stopped abruptly and turned back to me, “Oh, goodnight.” She smiled and planted a soft kiss on my cheek, then skipped back to her mother, who took her hand while wearing a worried expression on her face.


“What was that?” Arla asked, her voice a mixture of curiosity, worry, and a little bit of panic. Arla couldn’t see me, but Tali didn’t understand that—her young eyes saw me as if I really was seated in front of her.


“What was what?” Tali replied, looking up at her mother with a curious and innocent expression on her face.


“You said ‘Goodnight,’” Arla explained. “To who?” Arla’s gaze shifted between her daughter and the bench, where she still saw nothing, completely oblivious to the fact that I sat facing her, wishing silently and hopelessly that she could see me, too.

“Oh,” Tali answered, slightly confused, “Grandma Mina.”

The matter-of-factness in her daughter’s voice caused Arla to drop Tali’s hand, and Tali, oblivious to her mother’s shock, began to skip up the hill toward the house.
Arla stayed for about a minute more, exchanging wild, unbelieving glances between her now distant daughter and where I sat on the bench, still invisible to her eyes. “But...” Arla’s voice trailed off, and she shook her head.

I wanted to say something to her, but I knew she wouldn’t hear me, so I just blew her a kiss instead.

Then she turned and began walking slowly up the hill, and every once in a while, she threw a slightly worried, slightly hopeful glance back at my spot on the bench, still not seeing me.

I watched her as she ascended the hill, the moonlight illuminating her back as she went. At the top of the hill, she stopped to greet another familiar figure who seemed to be waiting for her. They appeared to be talking, but I couldn’t be sure until I heard the sound of his laugh rolling down the hillside—a sound so contagious that I had to join in. Arla must have told him about what Tali had said.

After a few more minutes, Arla went inside the house, leaving Deene standing alone atop the hill, drenched in moonlight.

Tears welled in my eyes as I stared up at him, remembering our lives together and all the happy memories that followed our magical meeting: our marriage, then our daughter, Arla, and everything after that—all the good things that ended terribly with my sickness. I missed them all. I missed Deene. But I smiled as his gaze turned down to my spot on the bench, and as the corners of his mouth turned up to mimic mine, I couldn’t help but feel alive again, like no distance—not even that between life and death—could make our hearts believe we were ever without each other.