Our New, Oldest Friend

My fourteen-month-old son and I were visiting my parents, and with the warmth of spring finally settling in, we spent the afternoon in their backyard. My dad brought my son over to the basketball hoop to bounce a ball while I wandered toward the edge of their pool. Looking down into it, I couldn’t help but reminisce about the many adventures and pool parties with friends and cousins that took place here. The sounds of splashing, laughter, and carefree afternoons still float through my memory.

Then, I caught a glimpse of something drifting on the surface of the water that pulled me into a much more specific memory.

A ladybug.

Her arrival has always been my signal that spring has arrived.

Every year since I was about ten, as the days started getting longer, I would sit at the edge of the pool, watching the evening light dance across the water. Sooner or later, something that looked like a ruby in a sea of blue would catch my eye. A ladybug, struggling on the surface, sending the tiniest ripples across the water.

In those early days, I would use a pool net or even a slipper to fish those little ladies out. As the years went by, my technique improved, and I started to rescue them by hand.

It always began with one ladybug. I’d pull her out, place her on a nearby leaf in the sunshine to dry off, and return to my post—only to find another one making her own tiny ripples. After the second rescue, I would step back, take a wider look at the pool, and realize there were plenty more. 

I would orbit the pool, entranced. Round and round I’d go—plucking out, then gently placing. Out of the water and onto a nearby plant. There were so many of them. As a child, I imagined they would all find one another and start a little ladybug colony together.  

As the sun inevitably went down, my parents would yell for me, asking what I was doing. I didn’t know how to answer at the time. To me, it wasn’t much. I was just helping a few bugs. 

As it turns out, those little ladies would create ripples far beyond the water.

Now, as I look down at this ladybug in the water like I have countless times before, the moment feels familiar. However, the sounds of my son and my dad playing nearby are not the usual soundtrack to this event. I crouch down and pluck the ladybug out of the water. On the first try, I have her in the palm of my hand.  

I’ve still got it. 

It’s been a while since I’ve done this, but it’s part of what makes home feel like home. 

Normally, I would walk over to the same plant where, in my childhood imagination, hundreds of rescued ladybugs had formed a little community, and place my newest friend on a leaf. 

Normally, I would fall right back into orbit around the pool, entranced.

But this time, my son’s laughter fills the air. 

The ladybug crawls onto the back of my hand, into the sunshine, and into her spotlight. I realize there’s someone I’d like her to meet. I walk over to my son, crouch down, and get close to show him my new, oldest friend. 

He immediately stops what he’s doing when that little ruby-colored bug catches his eye. Letting out a curious squeal, he points to my hand, entranced. A boy after my own heart.

Over the years, I thought I was simply saving ladybugs. But standing there in my parents’ backyard, watching my son stare in wonder at the tiny friend crawling across my hand, I realized something else. 

The small things we do rarely feel important at the time. We’re just orbiting a pool, reaching into the water, and pulling a bug out. But sometimes those small moments plant seeds that bloom in ways we’d never expect. 

Sometimes, they wait quietly for years, until one spring, they land in the palm of your hand and become someone else’s very first ladybug.