To Be the Last to Leave
The fireflies are gone for another year.
There are any number of things that signal that summer is winding down: The return of the school bus that picks up the cluster of kids who congregate at the end of the road, the appearance of Halloween candy on store shelves, the cooler nighttime temperatures and the sun still being down when I get up to take the dogs out in the morning. But for me it’s the departure of the fireflies that announces that fall is on its way.
I always anticipate their arrival in June, watching the grassy field and the willow trees behind the house for the first tiny beacons of phosphorescence. When I see them hovering in the dusk, winking on and off, there’s a moment of joy paired with relief. They’ve returned. Everything is proceeding as it should. For the next two months or so, the last dog outing of the night is also a chance to spend time watching the fireflies float around like tiny little dirigibles. As the dogs make their final trips around the yard, marking their territory, chasing the fox that has taken up residence near the barn, barking at invisible enemies, I walk across the lawn, following the fireflies.
When I was little, I thought fireflies were magic. Faeries, perhaps, or will-o’-wisps. Something not of this world, anyway, coming out only at night to dazzle and enchant unwary humans and lead us into other realms. Finding out that they were really beetles did not lessen the wonder in any way. To me, they still seemed to be miniature dragons, their bellies filled with cold, green fire. That their flashing might be a system of signaling to one another made them even more fascinating. What stories were they telling? What did they say with their dots and flashes? Science suggested they were warning away predators, or maybe calling to potential mates. I suspected it was something more, some sharing of secrets that could never be deciphered.
When I moved to California in 2001, leaving the East Coast for the West, I was disappointed to discover that there are no fireflies there. Or, rather, there are, but their fires are unlit. This is true of all fireflies west of the Mississippi. For whatever reason, only eastern fireflies glow. This was a disappointment, and although summers in California were perfectly pleasant, I confess that I always found them lacking in the magic department due to the garden never being lit by firefly light. (I was similarly let down by the absence of proper claws on the lobsters of the Pacific Ocean, who look positively unarmed compared to their Atlantic cousins with their boxing gloves.)
A decade later, I left California under difficult personal circumstances and made my way back east. I arrived in September, which is too late for fireflies, and it wasn’t until I saw the first ones the following summer that I realized how much I had missed them. My first glimpse of them after so long—blinking lazily in the warm June dusk—felt like a homecoming of sorts, a reminder of things I had once loved, and I remember thinking, “It’s going to be all right. It’s all going to be fine.” It was a strange moment in its way, being comforted by the appearance of these tiny bugs and their electric chatter, but it was of course about more than just the fireflies. It was about memories, and the reassurance that in the face of enormous change, some things remain the same. Hearts break. The plan you have for your life takes a detour. But always, in summer, the fireflies flicker in the garden.
A few weeks ago, the field at night was filled with hundreds of twinkling lights. As the days passed, the numbers dwindled. Adult fireflies live only a short time, about eight weeks or so, and the inevitable decline began. Hundreds became dozens, which became a few. Last night, there was one, a single light in the gathering gloom. I watched it move across the yard and up into the huge, old willow that sits on the edge of the property. Every few seconds, the green beacon flashed, the final firefly of summer telegraphing its message to the universe. It rose up through the branches, until it sailed out over the treetop and disappeared.
I was sad to see it go. Especially this summer, with the loss of my oldest dog, the deaths of two good friends, and my mother’s continuing decline, the end of summer has been a time of saying goodbyes and thinking about future ones.
But fall has always been my favorite season, and as the days shorten and dark comes sooner, it brings with it other delights, and other memories. For the past few nights, the dogs’ bedtime outing has been accompanied by the arrival of the bats. They’re always there, of course, but we seldom see them in summer due to the lengthened days. By the time it’s dark enough for them to come out, the dogs and I are generally sound asleep. Now, though, there is a period of time in the evenings when our worlds overlap. As the dogs and I are bidding farewell to the day, the bats are welcoming the night. They glide and swoop across the lawn, chirping and flittering in their seemingly-haphazard way. Where the fireflies are all graceful slow motion, the bats are chaotic zigzagging, flapping first one way and then another, filling the air with their tiny shrieks of joy. I love them too, their wildness and strangeness, and I’m glad they’re back.
So, farewell summer. Thanks for everything. And fireflies, I’ll see you again next year.
Michael Thomas Ford’s most recent novel, Lily, is a Tiptree Award long list title and is a finalist for the Lambda Literary award and the Shirley Jackson Award. More Michael Thomas Ford