The Lantern Parade

Story :

I was nine the summer the lanterns changed everything. It was 1997, and our little coastal town in Maine was the kind of place where everyone knew your name and your secrets. My world was small—crab traps on the dock, salt air in my lungs, and Mom’s voice calling me home before the streetlights flickered on. But that summer, I felt like I was drowning in shadows.

Dad had left in the spring, his pickup truck kicking up dust as he drove away. Mom tried to hide her red eyes, but I saw. I stopped talking much, stopped running to the pier to chase gulls. The world felt dim, like someone had turned down the sun. Then came the Lantern Parade, a town tradition nobody could shut up about. Every August, folks gathered to float paper lanterns on the harbor, each glowing with a wish or a prayer. “It’s like a thousand watts of hope,” my neighbor Mrs. Callahan said, her hands floury from baking.

I didn’t want to go. Wishes felt like lies, and I was tired of pretending. But Mom insisted, her voice soft but firm, like she was trying to stitch us back together. So, on that muggy evening, I trudged behind her to the harbor, my sneakers dragging on the boardwalk. The air smelled of seaweed and fried clams, and the crowd buzzed with laughter. Kids darted through the throng, clutching lanterns painted with stars, hearts, and clumsy letters.

Mom handed me a lantern, its rice paper delicate as a moth’s wing. “Write something, Libby,” she said, her eyes searching mine. I wanted to scribble I hate you, Dad, but her hopeful look stopped me. Instead, I wrote I want to feel okay again in my messy cursive, the marker smudging under my fingers.

We lit our lanterns at dusk, the tiny candles inside flickering like they were nervous. One by one, they floated onto the water, a constellation of golden lights bobbing on the gentle waves. The crowd hushed, and for a moment, it was just the lapping water and the creak of boats. My lantern drifted, its glow steady, and I swear it felt like it was carrying my words somewhere they’d be heard.

A stranger’s lantern bumped mine, its paper scrawled with For my son, come home. Another read Let her rest in peace. Each light was a story, a hurt, a hope, and suddenly I wasn’t alone in my shadows. The harbor blazed with a thousand watts of human longing, and my chest loosened, like I could breathe again.

Mom squeezed my hand, and I didn’t pull away. We stood there until the last lantern flickered out, the sky now a deep navy studded with stars. I didn’t get a miracle that night—Dad didn’t come back, and Mom still cried sometimes. But I started talking again, little by little. I chased gulls again, laughed again. The lanterns taught me that light doesn’t erase the dark—it just shows you where to step next.

Every August, I go back to the harbor. I’m grown now, with my own scars and wishes, but I still float a lantern. Last year, I wrote Thank you. For the light. For the people who carry it. For the nine-year-old girl who learned she could keep going.