A Life of Wonder

I often return to a memory that I’m not even sure is mine. There’s a house in the country and a porch surrounding it. It’s night. The grandparents are sitting in their chairs. The dark night is illuminated by fireflies. We hear dogs in the background. Maybe someone is playing the harmonica. Throughout the years, the texture of this memory changes. I can’t bring into view anything more specific: not an action, a sound, or a conflict, but I can’t seem to relinquish the memory either, or the feeling that something important happened that I’m forgetting.