There’s magic in a summer night.

Hearing Mom say, “Five minutes, now, I mean it!” And knowing she doesn’t mean it.

Staying up a little late every night, the whole family, the whole neighborhood, our whole world, and feeling like we’re all getting away with something, we’re all in on it together.

Barefoot walking in the grass, the tickle of it beneath your tender toes, the softness where the fresh-cut pieces pile, all in a line; breathing deep the sweet clean perfume.

The sticky heaviness of the air that hugs your shoulders like a favorite, time-worn blanket. You almost feel hot, but no, it’s just right. It’s perfect.

Honeysuckle sweetening the world, surprising you when you catch a breath, so you pause and try to catch the scent again, but it never graces the same patch of air twice.

Fireflies sparking in the twilight—ambling, lazy-like across the yard, looping and teasing—hiding at the edge of the woods, begging to be chased, flirting. Fallen stars, now in reach. And maybe one day we realize they are one of the few things we chase that we can always catch, and hold—and then, somehow, we know that a God who invented fireflies must like to laugh, and he is kind, he must be kind.

Flying downhill on a two-wheeler, heedless of danger, feeling the humid wind caress your face, squealing to a stop at the bottom. Glancing over to see if your lost-in-laughing-conversation parents will tell you it’s past your bedtime—then quietly catching your brother’s disbelieving, twinkling eye, grinning—sneaking past Mom and Dad together, racing back up the hill again, delighted with your luck. Soaring downhill, again and again, and all is right with the world.

Baseball games droning on forever in the background; Daddy shouting, happy and relaxed, and if you shout with him, you are in—pulled into that safe and mysterious and manly Dad world, where he winks at you and socks you in the shoulder, and it’s only the two of you, and now you are one of the guys—maybe even a man—even if you are a little girl. And some happy place inside your chest hums with joy.

Foods that drip, and it’s okay: watermelon—running red down your chin, spitting out the slippery black seeds; popsicles—sticky and sickly sweet and taking the edge off the heat; peaches—breaking through the strange fuzzy skin and finding that perfect not-too-mealy inside, bursting with Georgia delight; tomatoes—fresh and red and not too firm and not too squishy, sliced on a plate in Mema’s kitchen, and you never knew tomatoes were so glorious.

Iced tea on a front porch, Mom telling you to run to the garden to grab a sprig of mint to swirl inside it, to make it just right, and you are important, trusted with a family mission. Savior of the tea.

Muggy after-dinner walks—unhurried, unplanned—nodding and waving at smiling neighbors who hibernated inside all winter. Picking flowering weeds as you walk, because even they are beautiful, worthy of the vase on the kitchen windowsill.

The heavy smell of rain nipping the air, friendly thunder rolling in the distance. Wondering if the storm will ever actually show up, or if it will just make a show, rumbling and threatening, like a cranky but lovable relative… then drift away, as if to say, “Just kidding.”

Card games and dominoes, while an uncle’s banished-to-the-porch cigar smoke sneaks inside through the cracks in the window frames, comforting somehow, and dizzy-making.

Summer weddings, the bride a fallen moonbeam, the groom dazed and not believing his luck, the crowd lingering in the parking lot even after they drive away.

First-love hand-holding. The head-spinning, interlaced fingers kind, where you think, This is how people who are really in love hold hands, and no one else has ever loved like we two. And your heart thuds in your palm, and you know he can feel it, and your hand starts to sweat, and you wonder if you should let go, but he doesn’t care. And you think, This is love, I finally found it.

Old-love hand-holding. The safe kind, the your-hand-fits-in-mine-and-always-will kind. The kind where you can talk or not talk, and the silence is cozy, too. The wrinkly and worn-in kind. The finishing-sentences kind. The kind you want your parents to have. The kind you want to have.

There’s magic in a summer night.

The soul of childhood, and we all of us feel it:
Firefly nights, old-story-telling nights, baseball-in-the-backyard-by-moonlight nights, everybody-in-love nights. For an extra hour, maybe two, we revel in the lingering daylight, wrap ourselves in the comforting twilight that slowly steals the day, and the whole world is a kid again, if only for a time.

There’s magic in a summer night.