For Emily, a poem in memorium by Tia Levings

May your memory be eternal.

Summer Night, by Kitty Lange Kielland, 1886

I was on a road trip, driving through Georgia, 
morning sun cresting the trees,
when I heard that Emily died 
without warning. She was my age; 
had more to say. She needed 
more time here. 

Even after I left the church, 
Emily and I talked
about feminism and writing, 
about men who broke, then exhausted
our hearts, those frail-egoed chameleons 
who robbed our words and time and life’s blood. 

“But I won’t be silenced now,” she wrote. 
Now that her kids were grown, 
She planned to write a book. 
I bet her computer holds drafts
of ideas she had on the plane, 
in the woods and on the beach.  

She quoted Emily Dickinson,
“I’m out with lanterns looking for myself,”
But Emily Robertson knew her mind, 
poured love into her children
that glows on their faces, 
like the warm June sun. 

In summer, the Lampyridae communicate 
through bioluminescent light at dusk. 
Photinus fireflies are the East Coast’s most common,
Where Emily and I are from. 
Photinus is Greek for shining light. 
St. Photini was the Samaritan woman, equal to the apostles, 
an ordinary woman transformed by light. 

The Photuris firefly is the primary predator of male Photinus, 
a femme fatale who mimics 
signals sent by other females
to attract male fireflies 
And eat them. 
The science reads like women watching out 
for other women. 

My phone glowed on Saturday morning.  
The Lampyridae signal came from 
A friend and fellow Photuris. 
Did you hear about Emily? 
I thought she had the name wrong 
A spoof, a hack, a hijack, a joke. 
Emily is our age, I thought.
She has more to say. 
“I could write a 500-page book now,” Emily wrote. 
I believed her.

That evening, I sat beneath the boughs and watched 
fireflies blink in the blue twilight,   
flashing signals to each other. How many of them
are women watching out 
for other women? 
How many of them 
are feminist friends who find 
one another, even amid patriarchy, 
and communicate with their light?
Don’t let them exhaust your heart, love. 
Don’t let them break it. 

Emily died in her sleep 
two days after Mother’s Day 
but before Eli’s graduation, 
a time when Mothers don’t leave on purpose. 
“There are brighter days ahead,” she’d written last fall, 
after we spoke of the pompous male audacity, 
we both knew well, with fat lines of flame 
emoji because eventually chameleons reveal themselves. 
But fireflies do, too. 

When wonder comes
about what stories Emily would write, 
go toward the natural parts of this world. Go
to the water and wind, notice
the prism at the edge of the sunbeam, 
the deep blues of the ocean.  
Lampyridae are known
for their lanterns, 
for their signals, sparkles, and whimsy, 
but their season is brief. 
For a while, we were lucky to glimpse 
her light. 

--- Tia Levings, “For Emily,” 2025