Fireflies

Ft. Drum, New York, June 30, 1988
The street in front of our house
The van awaits, holding our casual belongings, our toothbrushes, our combs. The military movers left days ago. Sleeping on the floor of an empty room in an empty house prepares me for goodbyes, if not the echoes.

Archie and Rusty, Joe and Lisa, my half circle of friends. I can already sense Joe and Lisa moving closer to each other to fill the gap I’m leaving in her life. Archie lifts a half-hearted hand, “See ya around.” Rusty dribbles a basketball.

I wave, too, and take a step towards Lisa. Joe backs away a little.

“How will I find you?” My voice shakes. I hate talking like this.

My stepfather, carrying his Cerwin Vegas, yells, “Hurry up.”

“I don’t know.”

How could she know? She is so young in this memory that I cannot remember her face. I just know it was her and who she was to me. No, I don’t remember her, at all.

“Let’s go! Now!”

I’m being pulled away by his voice. I won’t be able to hold him much longer. Please, hurry. Don’t waste these last moments. This is it.

“NOW, BRANDON!”

Halfway to the van, I hear her say, “Look me up in 10 to 20!”

Our prison joke. A perfect goodbye. A sentence.

I sit in the van, but it still takes him another 25 minutes before he gets in and starts the ignition. The three of us sit quietly and wait.

Ft. Drum, New York, June 27, 1988
Eavesdropping on the Den
“They’re kids. They get over it.”

“He’s 15. I think he really likes her.”

“They’re just kids. The answer is no.”

“But it’s just one more day…”

“Absolutely not! I’m not talking about this! He won’t even remember her a week from now. I said no.”

“Okay, I know.” There, there. “I’m sorry, don’t be upset.” There, now. “I always wanted to travel as a kid. They’re lucky.” There, shhh, there.

Lisa
Our pedals tangle and we fall. She scrapes her knee, and I expect her to yell at me for being so foolish, for riding so close to her, for snaking in and around her. But I reach for her hand to help her up and she blushes. I give her my bike, which still works, and push hers, the chain dragging along the pavement, until we reach her house. At her doorway, we say goodbye for the first time. It takes over 4 hours. We say goodbye like this everyday for the next three months until I tell her that I’m moving.

The Detroit Windsor Tunnel
She’s returning. I feel her less already; I feel her and must walk more slowly to remember. My face, the muscles achy, grimacing from made up conversations and forced smiles. I recognize surroundings, but in sepia tones. I recognize voices, but they’re AM quality. Since I’m young, I won’t remember this. I won’t write it down and share it with the world years later. He’s right, I won’t remember. I won’t regret this loss. Not like the loss of a limb. I won’t imagine her still there, dangling from an empty socket. I won’t. I’ll make new friends. I’ll lose those and grow some more. Sections of an earthworm in a science lab. Cut them yourself and see. It doesn’t hurt, as long as you don’t sever the heart. It will re-grow quickly and become whole again. Tied to a rock. Regenerate your liver. You’ve angered him. Stop fucking with the Gods. You’ll get over it. Good to meet new people, see new places. It’s good for me to meet new people. Hundreds and thousands and millions of earthworm parts and regenerated livers. Lucky. So many places you’ve seen. Don’t drink in the car, we’re not stopping for the bathroom. I see so much. Our van has no windows. Shut the rear window, you’ll die from the fumes. Air conditioning wastes gas. Hold a can of RC to your face. Don’t drink it. We’re not stopping.

November 1, 1994 Budapest
The man in the next seat turns to me. “Do you speak Romanian?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Come here and look out the window.”

I see lines of women dressed in black, carrying thin, orange candles, slowly ascending a cemetery hill.

“This is the day for all spirits. They are celebrating the lives of their families.”

Without having to ask, the bus driver has slowed to match the pace of the worshipers. Glued to the window, long after the cemetery passes from view, long after the sun sets, becoming so black I can imagine the thousands of candle lights as stars projected upon this soft land of cemeteries and peasant villages. The world, upside down, landscape now starscape, overcast sky now the Earth above.

April 22, 2005, United Flight 917, Somewhere over the Midwest
A single mother, South Asian, sits next to us on the plane. Her two-year old, a boy, screams and struggles to free himself. This battle has raged for nearly an hour, and both mother and child, sweaty, disheveled, start to tire. The boy’s barely older sister, takes his foot and removes the sock. She holds it, a little statuette, and begins to lick the sole. The boy stops screaming, his eyelids dip, he falls asleep. The mother holds him and strokes his wet hair, her eyes watching the screen of the in-flight movie, having lost her headphones long ago.

8. Middle of the Night
There, there. Nobody’s hurt you. There, there. Just a dream. Shhh. There, there. Everything is fine now.

June 1991, Missouri
I pile the last of my college items into the car. I hear my own voice commanding me, Hurry up. Now. Let’s go. I let the car roll down the hill in neutral for awhile before turning the ignition.

Summer Missouri air. Fireflies, that as a child I called lightning bugs, sparkle, find each other in the darkness. Thousands of stars and candle lights, worshipers and family lines. Thousands of five minute hellos and 4 hour goodbyes. Thousands of me driving away at midnight without saying a word, having already said goodbye long ago, time served for good behavior. It’s time again for new people. It’s quiet enough now to think about scraped knees and lost limbs.