those. Sometimes we’d spend a whole hour out there.”
I close my eyes for a moment, recalling one of the nearly perfect nights spent with my father, doing what I loved most as a child.
“Daddy, get that one! Get that one!” my younger self cried, indicating one stubborn firefly that had made its lazy ascent to a place just beyond my tiny fingertips. The sky was littered with dozens of the insects. Their luminescent bellies winked on and off in a staccato rhythm, as if to a tune only they could hear. Catching them, with my sweet daddy by my side, was my favorite part of every warm summer night. For that one hour, my dad and I would dart in circles all around the yard, rounding up the beautiful bugs to put into a wide-mouthed Mason jar.
I open my eyes and smile over at my husband. “My heart would pound so hard. I’d hold my breath as he’d try to catch the ones I wanted. So many of them were out of my reach, like they would find a spot right beyond my fingertips and dance there just to tease me.”
Nate smiles, too, resting his temple against his little pillow, content to watch me as I reminisce. “Did he always catch them?”
“Always. And I’d squeal every time, I think.” I can remember with absolute clarity the sight of my father’s hand sweeping in from above to capture the tiny creatures, nudging them gently into the opening until the jar was too full to hold anymore. Now, the memories of doing something so simple with Daddy are just as delightful as the excitement of catching them was when I was a girl.
“What was the rest of the ritual?”
Happily, I recount our every step after that jar was full. “Daddy would take my hand and he’d say, ‘Let’s go get those feet scrubbed up, doodle bug. Time for bed and these little fellas have a job to do.’ Even now, I remember exactly how his calloused palm felt against mine. There was something so comforting about that scratchy hand of his.”
I sigh deeply, my soul filling with a subtle sadness that I haven’t thought of this in so, so long.
“He’d take me inside, to the bathroom—it had this awful avocado colored sink and toilet—and he’d plunk me down on the lip of the tub while he got the water just the right temperature. When he did, he’d loop his arm around my waist and pull me down to him. He’d make this vroom noise like a car going really fast. I think I giggled every night when he did that. Every. Night.”
A knot begins to throb at the base of my throat. Memories of my father are all I have left, all I’ve had for a long time. And even though I haven’t retold this one, it’s as precious and clear as if it just happened. Just as precious and clear as everything else about my father.
“What was the big deal about having clean feet?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. He just didn’t want me going to bed with dirty feet.”
“Interesting. Okay, sorry. Go on.”
“Daddy would tuck me against his chest and wrap his arms around me, press his scruffy cheek up against mine, and he’d lather his hands with soap. We always had this pink soap that smelled like flowers and bleach, but even over that scent, I could smell him. My dad. He smelled like smoke and pine. Like love,” I declare on a laugh. “At least that’s how I always thought of it.”
“So that’s what love smells like,” Nate observes, a playful quirk tugging at one side of his mouth.
“Yes. Love smells like my father. You should write that down.”
We grin at each other, falling easily into the lighthearted humor we’ve shared from practically our first meeting, over nineteen years ago.
“Duly noted. Now, proceed.”
I turn my eyes up, toward the airplane ceiling, looking at the seatbelt light, but not really seeing it. I dive back to my childhood, swimming in remembrance with all my senses, basking in those memories.
“When his hands were pink and foamy, he’d reach down and pick up one of my feet and he’d scrub the bottom until the lather turned green. He’d even get in between my toes, and you know how ticklish I am.” From the corner of my eye, I can see Nate nodding enthusiastically. “As he washed my feet, he’d tell me stories about where the lightning bugs came from, how far they’d