Waiting for Fireflies
The air is perfect. It drifts through my screen door and up the stairs where I sit impatiently waiting for the sun to set. It’s late summer 1983, so the heat and humidity have started to wane, leaving behind a perfect breeze. It’s like silk sliding across my face and through my hair. I close my eyes, draw in a deep breath. There’s a slight scent of fresh cut grass—one of my most favorite smells. Everything is perfect. I‘m happy and my only worry is how many fireflies I‘ll catch.
I’m fresh from my evening bath and eagerly anticipating Kindergarten in just a few weeks. Though the sun is setting earlier, it seems to last a lifetime. I wait on the stairs with a Mason jar clutched impatiently between my hands. My eyes are fixed on the screen door. I sit, anxiously waiting for fireflies to awaken in the night sky. I feel the raised letters along the side of the jar and the tiny holes my dad put in the lid. I study the screen door and its small, well-worn gray handle. Every time someone opens the door to leave, it lets out a small but distinctive squeak. I was going to make the door squeak. I was going to run wild in the fields. I was going to catch fireflies.