I remember, even as a very young girl, being mesmerized by the glowing light of fireflies. The humid nights of a Southern summer always remind me of these mysterious luminous creatures. Most vividly, I recall the 4th of July. In that strange hour, not quite dark enough to send off fireworks, all us grandchildren would run about gathering these strange bugs. I would capture a tiny lightning bug in my hand and present it to my Grandma. She insisted upon showing all the little ladies a trick. We gathered around her, adorned in our stars and stripes, eager to learn something new. She took her long retro red Revlon nails and pinched the glowing bodice of my helpless firefly. Now that the dark, alien-like bug remnants were removed only a brilliant little bead remained, glowing in the darkening evening air. Grandma placed the glimmering jewel on my finger, proclaiming that I now had a lovely ring. My sister and all my cousins begged for one, and Grandma diligently picked each firefly’s bright butt off one by one, turning their fragile little lives into 10 minutes of strange beauty. We all adored our radiant rings until the glow, the one last remnant of that firefly’s fleeting moment of fame, grew dark and dismal.
Absence was an option only waiting to be found
But the further that I float along, the sooner I could sink
And in the end what really matters that if you feel that you could think of me the same” —Uncommon by Umphrey’s McGee