Fireflies

In the cathedral of dusk,
when daylight bleeds amber through oak leaves
and shadows stretch long fingers
across unmown grass,
they begin their ancient ritual—

First one,
a solitary spark
winking against the violet sky,
then another,
and another,
until the air itself
seems to breathe light.

Fireflies.
Lightning bugs.
Children of summer's warm exhale,
carrying lanterns smaller than teardrops,
brighter than hope.

I remember being seven,
mason jar clutched in sticky fingers,
holes punched through the metal lid
with my father's screwdriver—
careful perforations
for tiny lungs that needed air
to fuel their cold fire.

The pursuit was everything:
bare feet on dewy grass,
the soft collision of night air
against sun-warmed skin,
the patience required
to move slowly enough
not to disturb
the flickering congress
of summer's end.

Each captured light
was a small god
in a glass prison,
pulsing yellow-green morse code
against transparent walls,
spelling out messages
I was too young to read:
Let me go.
This is not love.
Freedom is the only light worth having.

But children are collectors
of beautiful things,
and fireflies were the most beautiful—
living jewelry
that danced
instead of lying still,
constellations
that chose to visit earth
for just a few precious weeks
each year.

My grandmother called them
"fairies' lanterns,"
said they carried the dreams
of sleeping flowers
from garden to garden,
pollinating the darkness
with wishes and wonder.
She never caught them,
only watched from her porch swing,
ice tea sweating rings
on the wooden armrest,
her eyes following
their erratic ballet
with the satisfaction
of someone who had learned
that some beauty
is meant to remain
untouched.

In the suburbs of my childhood,
before the great manicuring,
when lawns were allowed
to grow ragged at the edges
and vacant lots bloomed
with Queen Anne's lace
and wild chicory,
fireflies rose like bubbles
from the earth itself,
as if the soil
had finally learned to sing
in light.

We would lie on our backs
in the cooling grass,
counting their morse code messages,
making wishes
on their brief illuminations:
*Flash for yes,
darkness for maybe,
two quick blinks for
dreams that might come true
if we believed hard enough.*

The science teacher
would later explain
the chemistry of luciferin,
the enzyme luciferase,
the cold light
produced without heat,
efficient as no human invention
could ever be.
But knowing the mechanism
never diminished the magic—
if anything,
it made it more wondrous
that such creatures
could exist at all,
carrying laboratories
in their abdomens,
conducting experiments
in beauty
every summer evening.

There were the synchronous ones
we saw on family trips
to the Smoky Mountains,
thousands of Photinus carolinus
blinking in perfect unison
across entire hillsides,
as if the trees themselves
had learned to speak
in unison,
a chorus of light
that made us whisper
in the darkness,
afraid to break
the spell.

And the blue ghosts
we never saw
but heard about
in campfire stories—
Phausis reticulata,
the females wingless,
glowing pale blue-green
as they crawled
through leaf litter,
earthbound angels
writing their names
in languages
only other fireflies
could read.

Now, in my adult summers,
I notice how few remain.
The suburban lawns
too perfect,
too poisoned,
the light pollution
drowning out
their shy signals,
the meadows
paved over
for strip malls
and parking lots.

But in the remaining wild places,
in the gardens
of those who remember
to leave corners
untamed,
they still rise
with the evening star,
still carry their brief torches
through the growing dark,
still write their love letters
in bioluminescent ink
across the summer air.

I have stopped catching them.
Now I am the grandmother
on the porch,
watching their ancient dance
with the reverence
of someone who has learned
that some miracles
are fragile,
that some lights
burn brightest
when left free
to find their own
dark spaces
to illuminate.

And in those moments
when one lands
unexpectedly
on my shoulder,
rests there
for the space
of three heartbeats
before lifting off
into the violet evening,
I understand
what my grandmother knew:

That we are all
fireflies
carrying our small lights
through the vast darkness,
signaling to each other
across the night,
hoping someone
will see our brief flashing
and flash back,
I am here,
I am here,
I am here,
before the summer ends
and we return
to earth,
leaving only
the memory
of light
in the eyes
of those
who were paying
attention.