It’s a balmy July evening, and I’m perched
on the back-porch steps of our house on
Hinman Avenue. The yard is replete with
a profusion of fireflies. It’s as if the dark
wears a cloak of tiny, gold lanterns that
flash on and off, on and off.
I hold a pint Mason jar, plan to catch many
lightning bugs and put them into the jar.
From what I’ve observed, this seems to be
a prevalent sport of many of the kids
in the neighborhood.
It doesn’t take long before I’ve captured
a dozen or more light-emitting insects.
I’m seven years old, and it’s the challenge
of the chase that fascinates me, cupping
my hand around their languid flight.
I won’t kill or keep the captured ones.
In less than an hour, I’ll unscrew the jar
lid, in which I have punched air holes,
and let the fireflies escape.
Mom is in the kitchen, watching me
through the window. Dad lies
on the couch, drunk, filled to the gills,
as Mom would say, oblivious of her and me.
These fireflies seem like temporary friends
that have deliberately flown into my backyard
to keep me company, to fend off failure
I feel as a son. I don’t think my dad wants me.
There are too many fireflies to count, and
when I look out at them, I see my childhood
coming apart in yellow pieces.
