Fireflies

I remember the fireflies,

The glass jar we put them in and released them from.
The dry, clear summer evening, just a little while before nightfall.
It was so quiet, except for the crickets, maybe cicadas.
We laughed loudly.
Free and innocent, not yet scarred, or bitter.
The grass was high, but we were still very young.
Everything seemed so big, there was so much space,
It was all very old and tattered, but new for us.
The fireflies would light and fade away… Light and fade… Light and fade.
It was a game for us, wasn’t it?
I thought so.
The evening light faded into darkness,
Much like the fireflies we played our game with.
We were called in for cold drinks.
The back door to a kitchen I never entered again.
A big house that held summer evenings of generations in its bones.
It was a good time.
That’s a good memory.

 

 

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