Catching Fireflies

That magical moment each summer when the first fireflies appeared, blinking me, winking me out of the house. Jar in hand, stealthily advancing, trapping one and then another. Illuminated glass glows, a mystic lantern, a tragic prison. By morning’s light, their bioluminescence extinguished, tiny bodies lie in repose. Now, years later, I blame my unfortunate luck in love on my errant firefly actions. Surely I am being punished for lacking an all-creatures-great-and-small respect for Mother Nature. Atonement will come only if I instruct my own children in the art of catch and release. But I simply can’t rob them of the childhood ritual of lightning bug delight in a jar.