The lowest branch of our backyard Maple brushes the dirt like the thin skirts of our Mexican neighbor, the one who says hello from her steps in the evening. Its leaves are bigger than my hand this year, a testament to the wet spring and the passing of last year’s cicadas. New growth strikes out towards our house on flexible branches of pale green that bend beneath the weight of the leaves like ruffles on the thin shoots. Last year I didn’t know the thought of losing you. Our hands hang low off our chairs, where we sit watching the sun sink down somewhere beneath the neighbor’s roof, leaving a hole in the sky. From under the lowest Maple leaf, a single firefly emerges over the grass, escaping into the deepening night, trailing the smallest of lights behind it.