I shivered in the late summer breeze
and heard a neighbor’s dog in the distance,
the wood and nails of the deck poking my body.
The stars dusted the indigo sky,
bright pinpoints concentrated
along the Milky Way.
“What’s that one?!” I excitedly pointed
to a bright star that had
appeared above the hills
that ringed the horizon.
Grandpa chuckled quietly.
“It’s a California Firefly.”
I watched it for a moment, enchanted,
then realized it was getting brighter, closer.
A plane flew high overhead
to the airport behind us.
Soon each of us wanted to be the first
to identify a “firefly” when it appeared.
Grandpa quizzed my brother
on stars and constellations.
I answered in my mind,
while my eyes drifted,
searching for Orion and his belt,
large and protective in the sky.
After some time,
my youngest sisters asked
to hear another story.
Grandpa began my favorite one
about our ancestors.
About Grandma Margaret
and her dream of a chain of
thousands of butterflies that linked
all the generations of our family
from her to me.
The dream comforted her at a time
when she thought all was lost.
In the late night sky, I found Orion,
saw the stars in his belt.
I thought of her butterflies
as numerous as the stars.
Snuggling into my blanket,
drifting off to sleep under the stars.
All these years later,
the stars and stories still
dance with me
especially on warm summer nights
when the breeze winds through the trees
and I begin typing.
