Honeysuckle was blooming.
The sweet perfume hanging in the air, as we sat on our porch on one of our slow, Southern nights.
It was May, but Spring had bypassed and we felt the heaviness of Summer in each breathe.
From our perch on the veranda, we saw the children play.
There was a faint orange blaze as the Sun was preparing her rest and far off was that very first star in the sky at dusk.
The children ran, played and squealed in excitement. Running up to us with their hands closed ever so gently… In between their sweet little hands covered in jelly and dirt, their prize is revealed. A faint glow pulses as if to greet us.
Little feet run into the kitchen, finding old Mason jars and begging the closest grownup with a pocket knife to poke air holes.
The twilight turns to midnight and the house is quiet. The next evening, our little ones run for their jars for the lights they’d trapped inside.
At the bottom were merely dead things that had lost their spark.
So we tell our sweet ones, our little ones…
Our lights deserve to breathe.
Our light isn’t meant to be contained.
Good night Firefly.