A different kind of night

Breakfast for dinner is not unusual for my family. Heck, we have breakfast for dinner more often than regular stuff for dinner. I'm not sure what it's like for folks in the city where they have all kinds of fancy drive-through restaurants and a million different types of bottled water.

Ma refuses to buy bottled water. She says it's a waste of money when we have the means to bottle our own.

A few years ago, she placed an order for this Britta filter thing from an ad she saw on the computer. I remember the day the delivery man left it on the porch. Ma saw his truck leave the driveway and almost tripped over herself going to get the package. I chuckled a few times watching her install it onto the sink's faucet—her having to do steps over again. The instructions say it should take fifteen minutes to put on. Took Ma well over an hour. But Pa and I didn't come between her. She was determined to do it by herself and made it past every nagging wrench that got in her way. And she did it right! All we have to do now is change the filter every two weeks or so. It works just fine to clean out any extra gunk that might be in the water. It tastes better too! Similar to the rainwater Pa collects in 10-gallon plastic jugs during spring showers this time of year. My pa is a clever man, and I look up to him with my heart and soul.

The smell of breakfast for dinner makes my mouth water in anticipation. Pa and I wait patiently at the dining room table while Ma brings in dish after dish, creating a family-style array of good eating across the table. Tonight, it's my turn to say grace. Bowing our heads and clutching our hands, I offer a few words.

"Lord, we thank you kindly for this good supper we about to have. Bless the hands that fixed it up and bless this house we live in. And bless you, lord for helpin' us remember all the goodness in every little thing, amen."

"Let's eat." Pa says, reaching for the plate of sausage patties.

I have my eyes on the biscuits and gravy first. Ma watches, her face shifts into a proud grin as our busy hands shuffle around, filling our plates with a first helping. She's used to it. Common courtesy says women are generally first, but in this house, mealtime is the only exception. She understands and encourages the two men in her life to eat up. I'm a growing sixteen-year-old boy and my pa is just, well, hungry all the time.

"Beau, did you finish stackin' the bales of hay for tomorrow?" Ma asks during mid bite, gravy plashing down on the table beside my plate.

"Sure did, Ma." I say, reaching for a napkin. "I shut the hen coop too. It's almost dark out and all the chickens were already inside."

"What was Miss Kelly doin'?" Pa asks, referring to our sick hen.

"She looks better. She was sittin' in her perch. The other hens know she ain't feelin' up to herself and are leavin' her be."

"Good. I'll check on her tomorrow and take her to the doc if needed. That bird hasn’t laid an egg in two weeks." Pa says, reaching for the maple syrup.

"Can I ask you a question, Pa? I need ten dollars for a field trip tomorrow at school."

"Boy! Can't you wait until after my belly is full before askin' about money?" Pa says, eyes squinting at me like they always do if I mention the wrong thing during dinner. He sets down his knife and fork and fishes for his wallet in the back pocket of his overalls. He pulls out two five-dollar bills and slides them across the table. "Where they takin' y'all this time?"

"We goin' to the Cider Mill down by Cripple Creek in Lexington, ten miles from here. I forgot to ask you about it the day before cos Lucy James wanted me to study with her again."

"Don't be gettin' that girl pregnant, you hear." Pa says with a serious look. Ma's eyes go big, and so do mine.

"Gil! That wasn't nice." Ma says, slightly bothered.

"Well, the boy is gettin' older, Lindsay. About time I tell him a thing or two." Pa says, leaving me stranded at the center of attention, my cheeks flushing red.

"Don't worry, Pa. She's savin' herself for marriage." I tell him, even if it was a little white lie. I don't know if Lucy James is saving herself or not. I'm just trying to end all the talk surrounding me.

The start of a second helping steers the conversation back to food. Well, kind of. Pa goes on to tell us about a new company he found that is willing to transport our corn and apple crops over state lines. It's a good thing if it works out. Means he'll be making more money this year and we can get that second tractor he talks about.

After stuffing our faces a while longer, our bellies are full. Satisfied. I help Ma clean up while Pa wanders into the living room hunting for the TV remote before stretching out on the lounger.

As I'm bringing more dishes into the kitchen, I see Ma staring out the window above the sink. From the odd look on her face, she sees something. I move up alongside her and set the dishes on the counter.

"Do you see those lights flickerin’ on the tree by the barn?" she asks.

I look out the window and sure enough, I see exactly what she's talking about — lights are blinking on and off over there. Mainly around the middle part of our huge oak tree.

"Gil? Did you put lights on that tree outside? I hope so cos somethin’ is blinkin' over there." Ma yells to the other room, searching for an answer.

"Now why would I do that, Lindsay? Christmas ain't for another eight months." Pa says, joining us at the window. "What is that, though?"

None of us know what those lights are so we slip on our shoes and step out into the night.

"I still don't know what that is." Pa says, leading the pack over to the tree.

Once there, we look up into the branches where leaves have barely begun to sprout. Some of the lights are moving, appearing in different places than before, creating short, yellow trails in the darkness as they travel throughout the branches and around the tree. The ones staying put, blink every few seconds as well. I become even more confused. So does Ma.

"Well I'll be doggone…Those are fireflies!" Pa says with a stunned look on his face. "That's impossible. It's April! Fireflies don't come 'round till late June."

He's right on both accounts. The lights are coming from fireflies, but what the heck are they doing out here this time of year? We take in the curious sight, wondering what would bring them here.

"What do you think it's means, Ma?" I ask, turning towards her at the same time. When my eyes meet her face, she is frozen in awe, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"It's Calvin...I think it's Calvin." she says, her words hit me straight in the gut, bringing that sinking feeling to my stomach. At the same time, every hair on the back of my neck rises and my knees go weak from the sudden thought. Is it really Calvin?

My older brother?

Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of Calvin's death. Tragically, he died a year ago climbing this tree to fetch Willow, our black and white cat. Willow scurried up the tree chasing a squirrel and had been whining trying to figure out a way down. Calvin, brave as a buck, tried to get to him.

He brought out a wooden ladder and set it against the tree to get half-way up to Willow. Fate lingered nearby, ready to pull one of its old tricks.

Without warning, the branch Calvin was inching across, snapped beneath his weight. He lost his grip and came crashing down. I saw the whole thing happen, and it remains the most-awful memory of my life. Calvin died minutes later from hitting his head on the ground too hard. His arms went limp across my lap before all my hollering for help brought Ma running out.

Calvin loved to catch fireflies in the summer and would release them inside the barn to give us a show after the lights were turned off in there. He would take others and put them in big pickle jars with sticks and leaves and watch them glow beside his bed before falling sleep. It was one of his most-favorite things to do in the world.

"Do you really think it's Calvin, Ma?" I ask, sobbing through my words, my mind trying to make sense of what's happening.

Without saying anything, she pulls me into her and gives me the biggest hug ever. Pa sees us and joins in on the embrace. I've never seen my pa cry before. Not even when he first found out about Calvin's death.

It's an indescribable moment. Our embrace brings us into a kind of unity I've never felt before. Words don't carry enough weight for what's happening, and I don't know the right ones anyhow. Is my brother—their boy—trying to tell us something?

"Lindsay? I think it is Calvin. I miss him so much, mama." Pa says, pulling away from us, sinking deeper into his grief. He buries his face into his hands and loses control over his emotions. The pain he'd carried all year surfaced at once, triggered by this strange encounter. Ma grabs a handkerchief from her apron to wipe away her own tears before wrapping her arm around Pa's waist while he’s hunched over. I don't carry the skills for this kind of thing and fail to find a way to comfort them.

After the emotions calm down a touch, we watch the fireflies swell in number, drifting through branches like tiny lanterns set loose in the dark. Their lights get bright enough to cast small, fluttering shadows against the side of the barn. They wander closer, circling us in shimmering loops, like they're curious about us. It’s a beautiful thing to witness. One even lands on the sleeve of my shirt. I hold my arm out to watch it reposition itself before flying off again, skimming past my face on its way back to the tree. Willow is out here too, purring deep, rubbing his sides against the base of the tree. He also knows Calvin is here. We all feel the same thing...

Ma, Pa and I stay out here sitting on bales of hay for what feels like forever, remembering Calvin, praying with open hearts to the heavens for strength. Nothing matters except being together, watching this mysterious wonder before us. Calvin wasn't supposed to die that day. I miss him something fierce.

At exactly midnight, the visit is over. The fireflies scatter and flitter off in all directions until their lights fade away, one by one. It feels like Calvin is gone again. Gone with him is the warmth and fascination we felt, the same mystical force that brought the fireflies.

It's easy to forget about time out here where it felt like the whole night paused when we first came out to the tree.

We linger a bit on our way back to the house, each of us carrying something we can't quite explain. Ma and Pa hold hands with their heads lowered to the ground, withdrawn. I look back at the tree every few feet, hoping the fireflies return. Sadly, they don't.

Before we make it to the porch, I see Willow waiting in the doorway's glow, like a little protector standing guard.

That fateful day with Calvin left a mark on him. He's never ever climbed another tree since...