When the fireflies flicker like Christmas candles on the lawn, I watch my little boy clap them in his hands - missing then catching, missing then catching. His quick wiry boy arms follow the tease of their bodies without one ounce of a plan. He follows their blinking path with his entire heart. What a happy accidental game of cat and mouse.
He disappears behind the side of our house and I am suspended in hope. Hope for his hands to be full of those magical glow bugs. Hope for each one to tickle his fingers before they push their dark bodies through the hole in his four year old grasp and fly away.
He is persistent though and resurfaces with three live wires barely yellowing within the walls of his tightly closed hands.
"I need my jar, Mommy," and he's off to apparently see to that himself while I am left behind, perched barefoot on our driveway.
Fireflies not caught still pine for each other in the sweet spot inches above our too long grass. They seem indifferent to being captured and jarred as momentary nightstand pets. Their indifference gives me the courage to believe that not everything worries about what comes next.
But still.
Who can fall asleep with those little romantics so trapped and forever unassuming?
Not me.
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