Letting them go

There can be nothing better than watching a late-day summer storm roll in from the front porch swing with my daughter.

“Purple at the top and then orange at the bottom,” she says of the sunset.

The orange takes over. It makes me think of Thanksgiving, I tell her.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she replies. “It reminds me of fall.”

I tell her since Thanksgiving is in the fall, we’re kind of talking about the same thing.

“Daddy,” she whines with a sigh, “that’s the only thing I could think of.”

A couple of seconds pass.

“When does Halloween happen?”

I tell her.

“You know that scary clown isn’t real? Poppa told me. It’s not really going t come up from underground on Halloween night.”

Another couple of seconds pass.

“Poppa taught me how to make toast and eggs. We should have toast and eggs in the morning instead of grits.

“Hey! A firefly!”

My soon-to-be-7-year-old masterpiece hops out of the swing after the thing as I watch. She catches the winged godsend and cups her hands around it, holding the creature as if all things were right where they ought to be.

“Look,” she says excitedly, bearing a grin.

She cracks the shell her delicate hands created for the firefly. I peer inside, hoping to be as excited as my daughter.

“I don’t see anything,” I say.

She opens her hands completely. The bug flies out. Kalista smiles.

“I love letting them go,” she says.

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