Of Fireflies

 . . . As I child, I remember the blinking lights that swarmed over the yard as I played on dusk descended summer evenings. Armed with empty mayonnaise jars with hole punched lids, my cousins and I captured a few creating our own faerie lanterns. Never keeping them captive long, we would open the jars and let them fly free when we were called inside to get ready for dinner.  After dinner my grandmother would take her place in her rocking chair on the porch, where eventually, I would find my place on her lap. Oh, the memories.

In the twelve years since I’ve returned to the East Coast, I’ve bemoaned how few fireflies I’ve seen in the large expanse of yard around our house. Like the bees, they are disappearing. But this year, the fireflies are lighting up the trees at the edge of the meadow like Christmas trees. As a child, they were  fun to watch, magical, but just things I grew up with - normal and ordinary.  Now, lying in bed watching them sparkle in the darkest of dark, I find them not only magical, but a miracle and a blessing.