What is there to say? The bugs that hung around the lights were big and tiny. Most of them were moths that just fluttered around harmlessly. None of them came near us. We were sitting curled up together in a position that allowed all of us a glimpse at the pages, at the words that covered them. IT was a warm night, not cold enough for a blanket but not warm enough to be left out in shorts. We were already set for bed, in our pajamas.
Fireflies lighted up the trees out in the distance. If I looked around, I could spot the main house. Their lights were on. If you listened quietly, you could hear their murmur. But not much else. Maybe the chirps of crickets or the coo of an owl. Most of what I remember, I’m not even sure that I remember. The grain of the wood on the porch comes to mind in detail. It was just a small porch. Big enough for a seat but not enough for a grill. It was plain with no overhead protection. Maybe there were railings. Probably not. It was only a foot off the ground. Pine needles littered the ground. It was orange in some places. And in others it was dirt. Out where the trees were cut down, that’s where the grass was. But I liked it better in the trees.
If you looked straight up, you could see it. The night sky. Some nights the moon was there, shining bright. Other nights, clouds covered it and casted an eerie glow on the cabin.
The pain of recalling the past, it isn’t because it’s hard to relive them. It’s because you realize how much you don’t remember and you have to admit you’ve gotten it. That the memory is gone in so many ways. That the important bits aren’t there like they used to be. That fact and fiction start to blur together.