It was dark the last time I talked to my father.

His voice was slow and soft and serious,

just like the nighttime.

I looked out the window as soon as my tiny hands

handed the phone to my mother,

my dad's heartbeats still ringing in my head.

The lights were peaceful and innocent and pure,

just like I once was.

The next morning was silent and sad,

the phone still held in my mom's hand.

I hardly remember the cries and the despair,

her voice anguished.

But there was a light that night.

I looked out the window

and heard my father's heartbeats again.

And to this day, even when it's dark out,

I can still look out the window,

and see the firefly passing through the ever-changing night.

It's always him.