Solstice eve

"From the rising of the sun to its setting the name of the LORD is to be praised." — Psalm 113:3

Saturday evening and the light is still here.

It is almost eight-thirty and the sky is holding onto the day the way a child holds onto the edge of the pool, not ready to let go, not quite willing to believe that letting go is safe. The porch is warm. The boards hold the heat from the afternoon and give it back through my feet and I can feel the whole day stored there, every hour of sun that landed on this house since morning.

The fireflies are out. They have been here for a week now, arriving the way they arrive every June, without announcement, without buildup. One evening they are not here and the next evening they are, and the yard becomes a different place, a place with small lights moving through it at a pace that has nothing to do with hurry.

I can hear the creek. It is lower than it was a month ago, thinner, the kind of sound you have to be quiet to hear. Tomorrow is the longest day of the year, though you would not know it by the evening, which feels the same length as any other evening except that the light is wider and the air is warmer and there is something in the quality of the silence that feels like the year is holding its breath at the very top of the arc before it starts back down.

I do not mark the solstice the way some people do. I do not light candles or stay up or make it a thing. But I notice it. I notice the light at eight-thirty and the fireflies and the heat in the boards and the creek going thin and the roses dropping their last petals into the grass, and I think that this is the longest day and I was here for it and that is enough.

The good Lord willing, I will be here for the next one.

Ruby keeps a collection of prayers at her kitchen table. You can find them here.