I remember fireflies.

As I tucked my daughter into bed tonight, I looked out her bedroom window at the back yard full of fireflies.

I remember delight and water left running.  I remember pleasure in beauty and confused hurt.

Sometimes I tell my daughter that some of them are fairy-flies, and if you look very closely you’ll see that now and then one of those lights isn’t a bug, but a tiny fairy playing in the twilight before bed.  You have to be quick, and they’ll try to dodge you, staying just out of sure view.

One lit on my hand the other night, flashed at me, and flew away.  I wonder if I was granted a wish?  I wonder what wish it was?

I choose to remember beauty, and fairy-flies, and perhaps a wish granted.



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