the only gripe I have. I’m happy that they found their peace; peace, for them, was just different than most of us think of as ideal. They showed me some valuable lessons while they were here, though. You never know when the angels will come to take you home. You just pray that you get in as much living as you can before then.
We love.
We laugh.
We hope.
And we keep filling our jar.
That’s what we did. All of us in my family. We did while my mother lived. We did while my father lived. And we have since they’ve been gone.
I don’t doubt that my children will do the same. And their children. And their children’s children. Then one day, we’ll all be a whole family again. In heaven. But until then…
With great effort, I rise from the chair, my knees creaking in protest. I ignore their groans as I’ve done for quite some time now. I’d much rather be the spry young thing that I once was, but I’m making my way toward the end, not the beginning. So until my day comes, I’ll keep getting up. I’ll keep laughing and loving and living the life that my parents and my handsome Robbie and I always envisioned. Filling my jar. And I’ll keep catching lightning bugs with my kids. And their kids. And their kids, which is what I’m about to do now.
Because that’s what we do.
We keep going on until we go on no more.
I fold the jar into the bend of my arm, holding it against my side like a football made of crystal. I don’t trust my aged fingers to grip it as I navigate the tricky steps. I figure this is the best way to ensure that it—and I—make it back downstairs in one piece.
As soon as my foot touches the hardwood at the bottom of the last step, I hear the excited squeals of my great-grandchildren. My heart swells to near bursting, and I’m overcome with the gratitude that I get to share this tradition with yet another generation. I hope it never fades, no matter how many kids of kids of kids my line has. I smile, knowing it would thrill my father to no end that I was keeping the chase of the lightning bugs alive. Even more, it would thrill my mother.
For a few seconds, I see her face. Lena Grant. She’s smiling at me through the flat, bluish screen of a monitor. I grew up seeing her that way. She was my mother, a bright spot in my life, even though I don’t remember meeting her in person. She’s proof that we can live on long after our bodies have given up.
A different face bursts through my mother’s, this one real. Molly’s sweet, shining countenance causes the image of my mom to tremble and shiver, then disappear like ripples in a pond. My great-grandbaby is who I see as I step out into the backyard, into the waning light.
At four, she’s the youngest of all my great-grandkids and the spitting image of her grandfather, my son. As she stares up at me, her eyes wide with exhilaration, I see the brilliant eyes of my husband looking back at me. That single trait of his runs strong in our family. He’s proud as a peacock that his genes are so robust. He often teases and clucks about his manhood. Like I have for sixty-some years, I just roll my eyes, but he always makes me smile.
I look up and see the object of my ruminations sitting in an Adirondack chair, throwing a ball with my eldest. The scene warms me, as it always has. Gratitude runs through me like the crystal clear waters of a mountain creek. I need to thank my Robbie for loving me. I’ve said it dozens of times over the years, but it always needs saying. That man and his love… Well, they changed my life.
One day, I’ll get to thank my parents, too. When I get to heaven, I’ll go straight and thank my father for staying with me as long as he did. He shaped the woman I am today.
Then I’ll find my mother. I’ll hug her, for the first time since I was only a few days old. I’ll hug her, and I’ll feel her touch and see her smile, and I’ll thank her for giving her life for mine. For teaching me about sacrifice before I could even spell. For showing me what a