Like Firefly Light

When I gave birth to Jules, in the same 24 hours I was ready for her to go to college.

Sending her and her younger brother to sleep-away camp for the first time — in a pocket of rural Tennessee thick with trees, mud and bugs — it felt too soon.

It also felt I was given a new lease on life.

We're at 20 years of marriage today and for more than a decade rarely get a night, let alone several days, alone. If we do it might be spent watching World Cup matches.

As the thick heat of summer sets in here, there are three trips to the neighborhood pool in one day. Cole concocts otherworldly, underwater battles and surface skirmishes with the strength of a synchronized swimmer. His colorful, 3D-printed reptiles and aquatic dinosaurs (swimming marine reptiles he calls them more accurately) are dashed through the water with powerful, crashing sound effects. He's clad in goggles and fins, rolling and diving with the grace of an otter. When forgotten momentarily, the creatures float brightly. Then are lined up in rows that reflect categories or to create a tense, lying-in-wait riverbank scene.

Jules snaps a pic for us while
Cole does his trademark move.

It had cooled off a little. A heat wave was hitting Europe. As we prepared for our latest and longest lake trip, Cary says, "I'm so glad we aren't in France right now, going to Paris like we thought we would."

I scream at him, laughing. Our summer wedding day was as heated as our life discussions. A trip to Paris, Tennessee it is. I love the irony so much it's worth it for the laughs, like the pure martyrdom of being married to a stand-up comedian.

I want a record player. We got a 3D printer. There's not a lot of space in our townhome so Johnny Cash on vinyl will likely wait.

Cole inspects each of the pool filters upon arrival each time. Beetles. Wasps. Frogs. Cockroaches. Spiders. He’ll rescue frogs that are alive, rinsing them off with the pool hose since we learned chlorine will kill them if exposed for too long.

We read together most every night and if I'm holding the book, he'll sometimes runs his finger over the dimple he's discovered on my wrist. The one created by the angle of holding something, the dip between your tendons. He asks what it is, tries to recreate it in his own wrist but is still too pumped up with collagen. He sets his thumb in mine when I tease it's a spot that will always perfectly fit your kid's thumb so you know you belong to each other. Neither kid believes me of course but my youngest likes the overly sweet joke.

He's turning brown as caramel again.

Jules is growing. More in mind than height, and I worry the latter will affect how people view the former. She's tiny and observant, determined and funny. Makes dramatic silly faces and does a spot-on goblin voice. Up for travel. Needs privacy at unexpected moments. Wants every subject or activity to be solely arts and crafts. Silent as a mime then talks a blue streak before bed or when she's excited. A wise old soul we have to remember to still safeguard.

I dread the moment when my hand won't really span the width of their backs anymore. When our holding hands doesn't make me feel invincible, because I've got them and they're invincible with me.

The other day Cary and I looked up where we had our first date in the fall of our year abroad, on Google Maps. It's there. The Indian restaurant we walked to from the Newbold campus, him taking the outside on the sidewalk to "protect" me. Food so spicy I drank a pitcher of water. He mentioned wanting to be a pilot one day. I was agreeable, more focused on the waiter kindly interrupting to provide me with more water.

The best parts have always been the wanderlust, together, adding to the crew when possible. Plants nursed back to life after transport, a beloved dog we'll always remember. Cole planking and Jules creating. Life takes bravery and the companions and careers you pick or are given lend both spicy sparks and cool you off when the temperature gets too high.

Our time huddled together happy or busy or tumultuous is fading, like the wake of our old boat with the big engine as we leave a cove we swam, snacked, yelled and talked in for a long time. Dispersing into memory. Queue the Interstellar music on the mobile speaker.

We dropped them off for camp in the rain and picked them up in the rain. We had date nights while they got mosquito bites.

Cole didn't get homesick. Jules glared when we picked her up, taking her away from new friends. Cole grinned big and was a little quiet, his voice soft and demeanor calm after a week of socializing and movement. He drank OJ every morning after downing the mandatory glass of water. Jules got the "tough cookie" award after falling off her bunk bed and barely crying. She defended Cole from a rough kid. They taught us the songs and games they learned. They went barefoot into the mud pit at the end of a hike. Jules gave herself a mud updo. Cole didn't have soap in the shower all week but confidently said he used water.

The stories trickled out. Cicadas their own soundtrack.

Cary rescued baby ducks out of the pool while Cole was gone and took pictures. Cole was shocked he missed it. We had noticed the fireflies are back visiting, their flickering light as magical and hard to focus on as ever, and we were excited to show the kids.

They already knew.