Fireflies, Family, and the Space Between

There’s a kind of magic that only happens in places that remember you.

This past week, I packed up my little crew and drove back to the place where I once was my parents’ daughter and now I arrived as a mother of two of the most magnificent humans I know.

It wasn’t a big trip. We didn’t fly anywhere or plan anything elaborate. But somehow, it felt cosmic. Like a circle quietly closing.

The patio at my dad’s house is a kind of wildlife sanctuary, birds everywhere, hungry squirrels, baby bunnies, and my personal favorite, Dennis the one-legged cardinal.

I watched my child ride a lawn tractor with my dad, and for a moment, time collapsed. Summers with my dad hold so many versions of me barefoot, scraped-kneed, wild-haired, and now here we are again. Only the little legs hanging off the edge aren’t mine this time.

We spent days exploring and letting the sun kiss our faces. The kids found their own rhythm with cousins, friends, sand, and sun. There were adventures, animal friends, and fireflies winking at us to signal bedtime. There was glitter on their cheeks and joy in their laughter, the kind of joy that doesn’t know it’s being photographed. The kind of joy that belongs to summer and childhood and now.

I found myself driving past old houses and forgotten corners that still whispered stories only I could hear.I felt both new and ancient in my own hometown like I had finally become someone the land could speak to again.

The beach was both ordinary and pure magic. The sunsets were quieter than I remembered, but somehow more honest. Everything felt slower. Intentional. Enough.

And somewhere in the quiet between ice cream runs and sunscreen reapplications, I noticed something else. As my children grow up, my parents slow down. There’s a strange ache in the space between visits, a stretch of time where little legs get longer and strong hands begin to rest more.

My kids are sprinting into new chapters, while my parents walk a little more gently into theirs.

And somehow, we all meet in the middle right here, on lawn chairs in the backyard, watching the fireflies blink.

We didn’t come for a lesson. We didn’t come for answers. We just came to be together.

And what we got was more than rest We got something deep and unspoken: proof that time isn’t linear when you’re surrounded by love. So we’ll head back soon. But I know something’s different now.

Not just in me, but also in the field. In the places that held me once and now hold my children, too. We came back to where the light still knows me. And now it knows them, too.

And maybe most of all, I know what I am now. I am the bridge between the ones who raised me and the ones I’m raising.

I see how fleeting it all is: my parents, a little slower with each visit. My children, a little taller each time they return. Time moves differently in this middle space. It folds. It stretches. It asks to be noticed.

And I’m noticing. With my whole heart, I’m noticing.