Around twilight I walked her back to her nearby home. The sidewalk was canopied by trees that blocked the first few drops of a light rain, emphasizing the sparkles of a scattering of fireflies in the shadows, and across the lawn of the church.
Under the trees, several fireflies drifted into my path, occasionally even hovering in front of me. While we stopped to look at them, I held out my hand, palm down. One of them flew toward me, alighting on my hand. It extended its wings a few times, then settled down. As we resumed walking, it stayed in place, randomly flaring into yellow-green light. We were both amazed that it was so comfortable riding along with me.
We left the canopy of trees, and I blew gently across my hand, sending him flashing back to join his friends in the night. The rain picked up a bit as we approached her house, so I said goodnight and turned back the way I came.
My spirits were high as I strolled along the sidewalk, pausing under the leafy canopy to watch the rain. I knew it was going to rain harder, but I didn’t want to hurry. A little rain wasn’t going to hurt me, and it was too pleasant an evening to ruin by dashing across rain-slick streets. I drew a few odd looks from couples huddled under their rainbow umbrellas, but I didn’t care.
Most of the fireflies moved out of the drizzle and back under the trees. It felt good to see their lights, reminding me of my childhood and evenings spent chasing lightning bugs across my grandparents’ yard. A Miracle Whip jar waited on the porch, holes considerately punched in the lid with a screwdriver, furnished with a handful of grass to provide them with the comforts of home. Before morning, of course, any captives would have vanished; I have always suspected my grandmother was complicit in their daring escapes.
As my thoughts drifted along the years, I held out my hand again, checking to see if the friendly insect wanted to accompany me on my return stroll. I was a bit surprised when one landed, but even more surprised when another soon joined the first. I raised my right hand, and soon there were five, blinking intermittently on the backs of my hands, advertising my presence.
I was afraid to move — almost afraid to breathe, lest I break the oddly tranquil spell. The analytic portion of my mind wondered what might be on my skin that would prove irresistible to fireflies; the mystic portion considered sympathetic magic and wondered if my reflective mood was drawing fireflies from my past. I watched them crawl across my skin for several minutes, thinking.
The weather stepped up from evening shower to minor rainstorm, and the trees stopped providing any shelter. At the same time I remembered a need for a grocery visit on the way home, and decided that I didn’t want to wander through the frozen food aisle soaked to the skin. I lifted my arms, and watched the fireflies lift off, flying into the foliage overhead.
A couple of nights ago I saw a scattering of lightning bugs in my yard. I thought of Kentucky, and mayo jars, and long-past mercies. I also thought about a twilight moment under the trees in front of a church in DC. There’s magic in our childhood memories, of course, but there’s also magic in our everyday lives.