Friday, June 3, 2011

blinking summer lights.

When I was little, I loved catching fireflies (lightning bugs, as I called them). We lived outside of Atlanta, where the trees were thick and the lightning bugs were plentiful. One spot I was particularly fond of was near my mom's softball practice field. Lining the field was a thick grove of trees, and as the sun would set, streams of light would peak through. Once the sun was gone, little lights would begin to blink against the dark tree trunks.


The other children and myself would exchange excited whispers and point to each visible spot of light.


We would quietly approach the bugs, watching each "blink" carefully so we could follow & anticipate their flight path. The older kids were always able to catch multiple lightning bugs, which would frustrate me as I struggled with being able to see them when they weren't blinking. But one particular day I saw one right next to me, mid-air.


The magical moment finally arrived when inside my cupped hands, there was a lightning bug. I watched it crawl around on my hand, screamed, and dropped it.

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