Fireflies

Bright lights are dancing, jumping up and down, colliding with each other and parting again, crossing the pitch-dark background – jauntily – without any sorrows. They hover over the grass and weed, lifting up the black curtains for a moment while closing them in another one. Their existence seems meaningless but is yet full of greatness.

I envy them.

As they dive through the starless night, they supply dim luminosity. One can be captivated by their dreamlike sight. Devouring one's eyes and sophistically tangle one's mind. One would say they are shy. But they are fussy and inherent. They decide whether to show their brightness or to let their environment remain in inscrutable darkness.

I envy them.

Someday they will make an appearance and someday they will not. Sometimes they even stay away for whole periods. Like someone watching the weather forecast they will wait for the good days – the pleasantly warm days, when the sun sets late in the evening. Then they will show up, flying all night long. Sometimes their hum mixes in with eerie thunder and the rain extinguishes their glow. But they are composed. They will show up another day.

I envy them.

Watching and unintentionally studying them – their rhythm and hum are monotonous yet soothing my messy mind. As I sit here on the old, rusty bench staring at their light-hearted performance, long forgotten memories keep flowing through my head. It feels like someone is knocking at the door, delivering the eagerly awaited letters and postcards. One will receive them, read the short lines of information, and examine the pictures with excitement. They merely convey fragments, extremely limited impressions. But it will always be the most precious ones depicted in those letters and postcards. So, will it always be the most important memories that one will remember – and the small, flying light-balls will show them to me. They will show me you again.

I envy them.

It was a cold November day. Rain was falling since the early morning. I stood upright, covering myself with an umbrella and holding back the shivering within the thin uniform. I routinely watched around. The new benches were all free, the few passengers crowded beneath the only one canopy. Just one little boy seemed to enjoy the bad weather. He jumped from one puddle to another, splashing the water on his yellow rain suit. I found myself smiling at this merry scene, but out of a sudden the boy slipped and fell on the paving stones. A woman – probably his mother – came running out from the canopy. She apparently tried to comfort him, but he did not stop crying. I watched them from a distance, still maintaining my position. Then another woman with blonde, long hair went to the boy and carefully examined his feet. Suddenly she turned around and our eyes met. Like a predator spotting its prey she confidentially stood up. As she walked straightly towards me through the rain, I was banned in her bright blue eyes.

‘Excuse me, Sir,’ she would say with an unashamedly accusing tone. ‘I am a nurse. This boy's ankle is probably sprained. Could you lead us to the infirmary, please?’

It took me a moment to realize her request. I quickly looked at the big clock above the canopy and then nodded in agreement. Without saying a single word, I led them to the infirmary and afterwards forthwith returned to my original position.

The hours slowly went on, passengers arrived and left, the rain did not take a break for one second. But within the grey and dreary surrounding I caught myself looking for a certain brightness – blonde hair which would stand out. Blonde hair which would glow like these light-balls – like the bodies of these little insects I am watching right now.

I envy them.

Memories can be both: angel or devil – good or bad – merry or sad. Sometimes it is hard to categorize them. And sometimes it is even harder to memorize anything at all. The time will be one's greatest enemy and fear will be one's hated companion. So, I will not be fastidious. I will take any memory I am able to get.

A gentle yet cold breeze strokes across the overgrown grass and weed. I shiver. The wind is getting stronger. He pushes the insects out of their flight path. But they are tough. Their warm glowing does not fade. I am still shivering instead. The limited circle of light that aged lantern next to me emits cannot defeat the cold around me.

I envy them.

We were sitting close together, warming ourselves against the early morning chill. Today I exchanged my thin uniform for a thick leather coat. The lanterns were still lit though one could already see the sunrise. Its rays reflected on the golden rings embellishing our folded hands. We did not speak but solely savored the harmony of that moment.

Suddenly a familiar, mechanic roaring broke through our peaceful togetherness. The loud ‘click-clack’ of the rails recklessly announced our forthcoming parting – and the sadness I suppressed until now forcibly arose again.

We clumsily stood up, slowly unfolding our fingers. I grabbed your suitcase to fill the emptiness your warm hand left behind.

‘She would only be away for one month,’ I blamed myself upon my cowardness. But every step towards the entrance seemed definite. You must have seen my negative expression and therefore gave me an encouraging smile.

‘Yes, she would only be away for one short month. I can manage that much,’ I thought. So, I smiled back. Satisfied, you kissed me, then went out of my arms and into the wagon. The mechanic roaring ringed out once more. The unbearable ‘click-clack’ started again, getting faster and faster. You stuck your head out of the window – still smiling. I waved to you, trying to capture everything, and engraving your image into my head – your blonde hair waving in the wind, your bright blue eyes, your heart-warming smile. But as you disappeared in the distance something inside me seemed to disappear as well.

After a few minutes I turned around heading for the exit, burying my worries beneath the anticipation about your promised letters.

Letters that would not come.

A strong blow abruptly strikes me, brings tears to my eyes. The light-balls are flickering, now desperately fighting against the wind. Nevertheless, they are defeated. The darkness swallows them one by one. But why should they be concerned? They will not dye. They will not even lose a single thing by extinguishing their glow for one night. Because they are composed… they will show up another day… because they are composed… they will–

I hate them.

You were gone for two days. A cold and dense fog kept laying upon the town since then, reflecting my humble mood. I was about to head out for work as the doorbell rang. Wondering who it could be at this early in the morning I opened the door. A middle-aged man with grey hair and a grim face stood in front of me. He too was wearing a uniform, but it was different from mine. Without saying a word, he handed me a thin, plain envelope. I had heard about this type of situation and therefore had hoped to never have to experience it myself. My shaking fingers hardly got to open the envelope and unfold the attached formal letter. It must have taken several minutes until my mind understood the meaning of the written words.

They would inform me about an accident. The train you and around sixty other passengers were driving on caught fire because of a technical disfunction. Twelve died in the flames. Their corpses could not be recovered, probably burned to ashes. And you– You would be among those casualties, they said.

The officer bowed according to regulation and muttered a ‘my condolences’, turned around and left me alone. The door fell back into the lock and I fell on the ground. My hands would not stop shaking and small, dark spots would start to cover the remaining, hateful letter. The words and the ink would vanish – bit by bit – year by year. And so, would your image that I desperately tried to capture.

The wind has stopped, letting off the grass and weed between the rails. My tears have already dried – had dried ages ago. The fields in front of me are dark, the light-balls are all gone. They retreated. Because they are pathetic. Just like me.

I hate them.

I hate me.

Yet, I am still sitting here.

Every night I am watching the overgrowing, rusty rails for a train which will not come.

Every night I am waiting for you who will not come.

I know that.

I know that since the day I received that letter.

And yet, I will sit here again tomorrow.

And I will watch the fireflies – recap my memories.

And so, I am waiting for the day I am not going to see them anymore.