The Last Summer with Grandma Lucy

The times never to be forgotten.

I still remember the first morning of that summer. The air was thick with humidity, and cicadas buzzed so loudly it felt like the whole yard was vibrating. My mom had just dropped me off at Grandma Lucy’s old house. She promised to pick me up in a week, but deep down, I wished it could be longer.

Grandma Lucy was the kind of woman who never rushed anything. She wore her silver hair in a loose braid, and her face was mapped with fine lines that looked like creases in an old love letter. She had a way of making you feel like every little thing mattered, like the shape of a cloud or the way the porch boards creaked under your feet.

The first thing we did that day was bake a peach pie. She let me peel the fruit, and I remember how the juice dripped down my arms. While it baked, she told me stories about when she was a girl. She said she used to sneak out to the creek behind the house and catch fireflies in a jar. I asked her why she stopped doing that. She shrugged and said, “I guess you forget how to look for little wonders when you get older.”

That stuck with me. So that night, after the sun sank behind the cottonwood trees, I tiptoed out to the yard with an empty mason jar. My heart thumped in my chest, part from excitement and part from knowing Grandma was probably watching from the kitchen window. The grass was cool under my bare feet, and I felt more alive than I had in months.

I caught three fireflies and carried them back inside. Grandma smiled when she saw the jar glowing. She set it on the windowsill by her rocking chair.

“You remembered,” she said softly.

We spent that whole week in our own little world. We read books on the porch swing, picked tomatoes from the garden, and even drove into town for ice cream. Every evening, she asked me what I’d discovered that day. She always listened, as if my small observations were treasures.

On the last morning, I woke up early and found her already in the kitchen, stirring oatmeal. She looked tired, but she still had that gentle light in her eyes.

“I hope you never stop catching fireflies,” she told me, handing me a bowl. “Promise me that.”

I promised her, and I meant it.

That was the last summer I had with Grandma Lucy. She passed away the following spring. But to this day, whenever I see fireflies blinking in the dark, I feel like she’s right there beside me, reminding me to look for the little wonders.