I worked a double shift today. Only few hours into that double, my husband informed me that both he and our younger son were diagnosed with bronchitis. This on the heels of our older son’s sinusitis diagnosis.
With 3/4 of the people in the house on antibiotics and in bed, here I sit on my back deck, in the black of night, alone, with every passing moment drawing me nearer the witching hour, praying that the nagging ache in my back, hip, and leg quiets enough that I may sleep sometime tonight, and I catch, out of the corner of my eye, the momentary flash of a lightning bug. I can’t help but smile.Do you remember, when you were young, spending an evening catching lightning bugs with the neighborhood kids? Did you put them into a jar with holes poked into the lid so the bugs didn’t suffocate? Did you release them in the morning? I do, and I did. I would even put blades of grass and small twigs into the jar so the lightning bugs had something to do besides sit on the floor of their prison - tho, I didn’t realize as a child how cruel it must have been for the bugs.
I spent my earliest years growing up in one of the fastest declining urban areas in the country, but you don’t understand such things when you are wrapped in the protective blanket of innocence in youth. Our small intercity lot had a plum tree in the far corner of the back yard, a pear tree so close to the house that my brother would reach out his bedroom window to snag a fruity snack, and a raspberry bush behind the garage that we raced to in the mornings during their season to get to the berries before the birds did. We were blessed with great neighbors on both sides, and just past the house to one side of us was a wooded area with a tiny walking trail and vines we had no business swinging on but did anyway. Across the street was another small cluster of trees flanked on one side by a vacant lot and the other by a small field that no one claimed and, thus, was never mowed. Doesn’t sound quite urban, does it?
Most summer nights that small, unkempt field, the little wooded area, and the empty lot magically manifested into a stage, a theater in which one could witness a dance as old as time - the dance of the firefly. Our front porch was a prime location to watch the one of nature’s finest masterpieces. I would sit on that porch mesmerized, watching the myriad of tiny lights pulsing in and out, floating as if tossed by gentle waves. Few moments in my life seemed as peaceful as sitting in the dark watching my own private lights display.
I live suburban now, in a condo community with lots so tiny that if I stood between two houses and reached my arms out I could touch each simultaneously, and lightning bugs are a rare sight indeed. And yet, every now and then, I catch a fleeting glimpse of yellow in the darkness that surrounds me, reminding me that there is still something good, something bright, and something simple that can bring only joy into the night of my world - the dance of the firefly.
