Have you ever heard of a glimmer?
It’s the opposite of a trigger — not the thing that pulls you into fear, but the small thing that draws you gently back toward hope.
A glimmer can be a smile, a memory, an elevator door held open just when you needed it most — tiny reminders that the world’s still good.
This story, as it happens, is about one of those glimmers.
And about my pup, Zoey — with a Y in real life, but Zoe in the book — the kind of dog who greets everyone like they’ve been missed for years.
(And yes, I still say “puppy,” even though pretty soon she’ll be old enough to apply for Medicare.)
She reminds me every day that even the smallest lights are worth following.
So if you could use a glimmer today, here’s ours.
Pour yourself something warm. Get cozy. And let Arney the Armadillo take it from here.
And if this story feels a little more like listening by a front porch than reading from a page — good.
That’s just how it was meant to be.
Zoe Gets a Visitor
Well now, would you look who's come wanderin' down my way.
Come on in, sugar — just mind the hydrangeas; they can wilt, bloom, and pout all before noon.
Name's Arney. Arney the Armadillo, if we're bein' formal.
Folks 'round here say I've always got dirt under my nails and a story up my sleeve.
And me? I'm right where I belong — down on one knee, sleeves rolled up, workin' a little stretch of the garden I call the Medicine Trail.
(And between you and me, just 'cause a fella's fond of a good manicure don't mean he can't wrestle a wheelbarrow or two.)
Not every patch of green is planted just for pretty. Some are stitched together for healin'.
Herbs like yarrow, lavender, and mint — plants the old folks trusted long before pharmacies came along with their fancy labels.
Truth is, I didn't always know what all these roots and leaves were good for.
Back before I traded medals for mulch — Colonel Arney, if you can believe it — I patched up more folks than I can count, with nothin' but bandages, grit, and a prayer.
Later on, down south, I spent some good, quiet years walkin' side by side with a Mayan medicine man — a real old soul who knew the songs of the plants better than most folks know their own family tree.
We traded what we knew — me with my medicine from bottles, him with his ancient wisdom — and somewhere along the way, I learned that healin' ain't just found in a bottle.
It grows, if you know where to look.
And that's why this little stretch of dirt — my Medicine Trail — ain't just a garden.
It's a promise.
I was down there tuggin' weeds, spring thick in the air — the kind of season when every nest, den, and burrow's burstin' with new life — when I heard it.
That particular kind of buzz, not from bees, but from the garden itself.
A low, fretful hum, the kind that tells you somethin' unexpected's about to walk right into your day.
The little ones were everywhere — pups tumblin', baby wrens cheepin', whiskery noses pokin' outta holes.
And Tater, our littlest, wide-eyed baby possum, scurryin' through it all like wonder itself, too young yet to know what he oughta fear.
One minute he’s doin’ somersaults off a daisy mound, the next he’s flat on his back, tongue out — playin’ dead like it’s a party trick. Little rascal’s fooled half the garden more than once.
"Gone cold!" someone always cries, till he pops one eye open and snickers like a chipmunk with a secret. Mischief in a fur coat, that one.
And wouldn't you know, just as I was coaxin' up a stubborn root, it started with Zoe.
Our Nosey Rosey herself — a scruffy little Wheaten Terrier, tail high, nose to the ground, snufflin' and circle-walkin' near the North Gate.
Now, you might think nothin' much ever happens by an old garden gate.
But sugar, that worn latch has seen more stories than a church potluck — the kind where tales stretch longer than the table and everybody's got seconds.
It was just slippin' toward dusk then, when the sky goes soft as a sigh and the garden glowed like golden honey.
That's where Zoe found him.
She came up quick — nose twitchin', ears perked — and froze right there at the gate.
Somethin' small was blinkin' low against the iron — soft and slow, like a candle about to give out.
A firefly. Tiny. Battered. Holdin' on with whatever he had left.
And perched just above her — neat as you please on that fence rail — was our resident cardinal, Harpo.
Quiet. Watchful.
The kind of still that only comes when you know deep down somethin' important's happenin' and you don't dare rush it.
Some say Harpo's watchin' keeps the whole garden in tune.
He didn't flap or fuss.
Just tilted his head and watched Zoe with those sharp old eyes, waitin' to see if her heart would do what we all hoped it would.
And bless her, sugar — it did.
Zoe leaned in first. Soft. Careful.
She didn't pull back. She didn't bark.
She just breathed slow and easy and opened that big ol' heart of hers a little wider.
It didn't take long for them to come fetch Astra and me.
Now, Astra — she's our bright-eyed squirrel with wheels where most folks have legs, and a scarf that shifts like a banner when the wind's just right, and a mind sharper than a blackberry thorn.
When I got there, I knelt down slow, lettin' the garden settle around me.
Now, some folks might stand there and say, "I'm not here to help, only to observe and judge" — bless their hearts — like that's some kind of virtue.
But sugar, that ain't how we do things 'round here.
I pulled a little yarrow from my apron — always keep a sprig or two handy, like my Mawmaw kept peppermints rattlin' around in her church purse — and crushed it gentle in my palm.
The smell lifted, sharp and clean, and I touched a dab to the little thing's battered wing.
I fished a tiny glass dropper from my apron — always keep one handy, like a Southern lady keeps a spare earring — and let just one drop of water fall, gentle as a kiss, onto that trembling wing.
The firefly — Glimmer, we'd come to call him — fluttered his wings once, slow.
He was hurt, but sugar, he wasn't beat.
And tucked safe near the yarrow, small but sure, our littlest guest began to heal.
For a while, the garden held its breath, watchin' close.
Now, fear's a funny thing. Give it a little room, and it'll rise quicker than my Aunt Dolly's lemon chiffon — and trust me, Aunt Dolly didn't exactly follow the family recipe.
Whispers started rollin' through the garden.
"A marsh critter," they said.
"Not one of ours."
"Oughta be careful."
Folks started pullin' their little ones closer.
A few tails stiffened, a few wings fluttered high.
The air got tight — heavy with a kind of nervous shufflin', like a Sunday congregation waitin' on a storm to break.
Zoe kept close to the gate.
Harpo stayed perched, still and sharp-eyed.
And me? I could feel it — that low rumble that comes right before somethin' gives.
Then — just when the garden held its breath — Tater was gone.
Our littlest, wide-eyed baby possum had vanished without a trace.
For a beat, the whole garden went still — like the moment right before a storm splits the sky.
Then it broke wide open.
Wings flapped wild. Voices rose sharp and scared.
Parents called names into the mist, tails thrashin', hearts hammerin' so loud you could near hear 'em over the crickets.
Didn't take but a glance at the fence line to see the story written plain: little Tater's tiny tracks slippin' through the North Gate.
Harpo didn't wait.
He swooped down soft as a whisper and slipped into the mist.
I caught Astra's eye — her jaw tight, her wheels shiftin' like she might roll straight through the gate herself — but I laid a firm hand on her shoulder.
"You don't send a thunderstorm to fetch a flicker," I said. "Best let the light find its own way home."
And Zoe?
Well, Nosey Rosey wasn't about to be left behind.
She barreled after him, paws high, tail low, heart first.
The marsh swallowed ’em fast; mist twistin’ into shapes that weren’t there.
Bone-deep, icy-slick brushed against their ankles — like steppin’ through a grave that’s forgot its name.
Sounds shifted.
Bent.
Turned back wrong.
Even your own bark wouldn’t come back the way you sent it.
The ground went soft.
Greedy.
Grabby at their feet.
Fear pressed down heavy.
Hope got small.
Zoe pushed forward, snufflin’ low, but the scent — gone. Swallowed by damp air and tangled weeds.
She circled once, twice, then froze — ears back, tail low. Lost. Just for a moment.
No sound. No scent. Just doubt.
And just when it seemed like the dark was gonna close in for good—
CRACK!
A branch snapped loud, sharp as a bone break, followed by a scrape-slosh, like somethin’ heavy slidin’ slow through the wet.
Zoe crouched low.
Harpo flared his wings low.
Tater huddled beside him, small and shakin’.
Then Harpo did what no one expected.
He opened his beak.
No song came.
Just silence — deep and strange and full — a note only meant for the one who needed it.
The kind only hearts like Zoe’s ever really hear.
And Zoe heard it.
Her ears perked.
She turned.
And like a compass findin’ north, she bolted through the mist — straight toward the sound no one else could hear.
She found them — huddled close, wings wrapped around the little one.
Zoe nosed into Harpo’s side, tail thumpin’ slow and sure.
And that, sugar, is when the light came.
Tater saw it first — a flicker through tear-blurred eyes.
Small. Stubborn.
Holdin' steady against the mist.
Little Tater whimpered soft, a call from the heart more than the throat.
And Glimmer answered.
That little rascal — beat-up wings and all — stepped forward like he'd been guidin' lost souls his whole life.
Floatin' slow, bobbin' easy, Glimmer led the way — and behind him, a river of kin wove through the mist.
Zoe stilled, ears high, breath caught. For a moment, she didn’t move — didn’t need to. There was something in the air she hadn’t felt since her earliest days, something that smelled like love left behind.
Harpo bowed his head, not in fear, but in reverence — like he was hearin’ a song only the soul could carry.
And Tater, bless him, blinked slow and wide, then reached a tiny paw toward the lights like he knew them.
Maybe it was family. Maybe it was memory. Or maybe — just maybe — the ones we love find ways to come back when we need 'em most.
Their lights shimmered gold and soft as breath, stretchin' out in a slow, proud procession, like the old Creole parades that honored every soul — whether born, gone, or found again.
No music but the hush of wings.
No fanfare but the beat of tiny hearts, steady as a drum carried home.
And with every step, sugar, the mist peeled back, the ground firmed up, and the dark let go.
They’d come through the worst of it now — and just past the last of the mud and mist, the land gave way to a shadowed thicket.
Quiet. Dense. Still.
The kind of place where light could hide — or wait.
And wait it had.
Because light, when it marches together, don't just find its way — it makes one.
Funny thing, sugar — sometimes it takes the smallest ones, the ones too new to know better, to step out first and remind the rest of us how to follow the light.
Zoe stepped first.
Harpo hovered close.
Tater shuffled between 'em.
The marsh didn't fight 'em no more.
The mist parted, breathin' easier.
The ground firmed underfoot.
And through the liftin' dark — there it was.
The North Gate.
Tater's mama and daddy came runnin' first, arms wide, hearts wild.
They scooped him up so fast I swear the boy spun twice.
Zoe got mobbed, wagged, patted, near about kissed by every critter from the parsley patch to the fountain.
And Harpo — he just dipped his head low, sayin' more with that one small bow than most could manage with a whole flood of words.
But when Glimmer and his river of lights floated through the gate — well, sugar, that's when the whole garden stopped breathin'.
Fear tried to creep back.
It always does.
Till Tater, bless him, puffed up his scrawny little chest and squeaked as proud as a rooster:
"He helped us!"
And just like that — the dam broke.
The garden rolled forward — touchin', thankin', tail thumpin'.
A tiny bunny — barely bigger than a beetroot — hopped shyly up to Glimmer and laid a clover sprig at his feet.
Glimmer blinked once, slow, and gave a soft pulse of light, like sayin' thank you without a single word.
And I leaned back against the post, arms crossed, watchin' it all with a slow, easy smile.
Because sugar, it ain't every day you see a light lead the lost ones home.
And sometimes?
Sometimes the ones we fear the most are the ones carryin' the lantern we need.
Now sugar, most folks'd say it was just a wild night.
But I know better.
It was a lesson.
That real light don't have to blaze.
A flicker's enough to find your way.
That fear builds fences.
Kindness opens gates.
I sat quiet while the stars blinked overhead, watchin' Glimmer's kin slip back into the mist.
A battered firefly.
A stubborn little possum.
Both carryin' light the grown ones were too busy fearin' to see.
And if you ever catch me dabbin' at my eyes, it's just garden dust.
(You know better, but we'll keep that between us.)
Somewhere past the North Gate, a light pulsed once — twice — then was gone.
But the glow it left behind is still with us.
And when fear says, "Close the gate," kindness says, "Open it wider."
And sugar — sometimes it's just that simple. That's how the whole world changes.