The Fireflies Don’t Come Here Anymore

It was just before 9pm and the sun was still warming our skin. We changed into our bathing suits in the car– an act we’d master in those few, long days. The alcohol in our veins kept our toes from stinging as the sailboats made their way in from across the Puget Sound.

I think this is what he meant when he told me the sky felt different here.

Here was a string of 1,000 dusks and the smell of saltwater and pine. And just like I couldn't have imagined falling in love here, I couldn't foresee the pink confetti those trees would scatter later that year.

I still read his words over again, as though one of these days they will change. In the mornings, we'd wake to the sounds of the city floating up the fire escape, then walk to the coffee shop in the kind of comfortable silence that sang echoes in the alleyways we passed. In the lasting evenings, we drank whiskey on the dock and watched the colors reluctantly fade into gray.

I felt my heart, chamber by chamber, melting into the floorboards. And for the first time, I wasn't afraid for the seasons to change.

These are the stories and places I’d write home about, if only I knew where home was. But for now, I keep these words bound to the paper I hope you’ll one day read, and remember that home was us all along.