Last night I stepped outside in the dying light to look for the girl child.
Her pale blue-green dress was glowing against the darker greens of our street’s kempt lawns, and she skipped to and fro like a fairy, arms outstretched, grasping for a tiny will o’ the wisp that blinked ahead of her.
The fireflies are out, and it was the longest night of the year. There was school today, and she needed her sleep after a late night on Saturday, but I couldn’t deny the magic of chasing fireflies on the solstice. I joined in, ignoring the mosquitos that I could feel but not see on my bare arms and sandalled feet.
Fireflies travel low to the ground and don’t mind being caught. They’re busy looking for love, flashing their little messages back and forth. If you catch one, which is not so hard, it will flash in your hand a few times before flying on its way, an unremarkable little beetle with fizzy wings and an illuminating rear end.
It’s summer now.