Fireflies

I saw my first fireflies in Kentucky tonight.

When I was a little girl, the only day that could come close to rivaling the sheer, unbridled joy of Christmas morning was the first day of fireflies.

Seeing them tonight immediately transported me back to Winding Lane. My brothers and I were up with the sun and, after nourishing ourselves with Cap’n Crunch and ice cold milk, we took off running, carpe-ing that diem like it was our job. We’d warm up with a neighborhood bike ride around the block (on the sidewalk, of course). The more, the merrier. Next activity up would be driveway hockey; I would usually either play in net or spin the Jock Jams turntable on our old boom box. Around this time we’d break for lunch. We’d sit out in the backyard and eat the tray full of sandwiches that Mom made us and contemplate life as only a child under the age of eight can. Then it’d be back to business. Tag, hide-and-seek, Nerf wars. Boy, our schedules were packed. We’d drag ourselves into the house for dinner, sun-drunk and breathless, wolf it down as quickly as possible, and head back out for the best part of the whole day - twilight.

I think even at that age we understood the magic of the hour. The air smelled sweeter, it weighed heavier on our tiny, sweaty brows. If we’d been playing wiffle ball all day, we’d have to stop, because the ball would play tricks on our eyes in the hazy gray light and the bases would start to disappear (I would inevitably be the first casualty in this circumstance, and I often had the bruises to show for it). We’d play a few rounds of tag but, frankly, it’d been a long day of running and tagging and laughing, and it was time to rest. Porch lights were on, and we could hear the murmurings of our mothers sitting outside with each other. The grass felt so cool on our dirty little feet, so we’d plunk down in it and spread our arms out to the darkening sky and soak it all in like we were the only people on the face of the earth and all of this was for us.

And then, there they were. Little points of light winking at us from above. Like stars, but stars that we could catch and hold and whisper our wishes and secrets to. Oh, man. At that moment, my little heart knew no greater bliss. Summer lasted forever and every single day would be spent like this one. My brothers and I would never get older, and we’d always be best friends with the boys on the block. Our moms would always be there to keep an eye on us, and the fireflies would light up the night sky for all eternity.

Love was so incredibly simple then. We existed, therefore, we loved. We loved absolutely everything, from the grass crinkling under our necks to the balmy breeze brushing over our scraped and sun-tanned legs. Our wide eyes drank in those tiny glowing spots in the big night and we felt warm and safe in the arms of the universe. “Vulnerability” meant nothing to us. We were invincible. At least until September.

Somewhere along the way, I think we tend to lose sight of this love. Love becomes a word, a thing convoluted and contrived and confused. We forget that love is. It doesn’t have to be explained. Excuses don’t have to be made for it. We don’t have to look for it, and it doesn’t have to find us. It shouldn’t hurt, and it shouldn’t make us to be something that we aren’t.

We know love when we lay down our weary heads and find comfort waiting for us there. When we don’t have to try to justify our existence; we’re accepted and cherished in our pricelessly broken states. When a light as tiny and seemingly insignificant as that of a firefly can lend meaning to our entire being, and give us hope for a million tomorrows.