Fireflies

To celebrate the New Year we punched out confetti from gold paper and stuffed the glitter into balloons. We strung the balloons up near the ceiling with an old sheet, tenuously attached to a book shelf, a picture hook and the air conditioning unit. The boys had seen this kind of suspended celebration at a city venue and wanted the same at home. This is just my kind of project. I was happy to oblige. They boys have held onto the balloons. It is now July and each month, one bursts, the rubber too weak, its will broken, unable to stand another moment of neglect under a bed or on top of a cupboard. While I pick up the rubber, vacuuming is not my strong suit. Golden teddy bear confetti stubbornly resists in the corners of their rooms.

When I saw a piece of glitter in the air in front of me, walking home after dinner the other night, I assumed a piece of New Year's glitter, seven months old, had followed me, had nestled itself in the laundry and finally come loose. It was muggy and warm. I stopped to see it on the pavement, it's familiar teddy bear shape, to say goodbye. What I saw instead was an unassuming insect, blunt and grey. It flew to a nearby building and before it rested its wings on a windowsill, its body burned like a lightbulb. A firefly! My first sighting. I squealed so the boys came running back and we watched it, its body a golden lozenge. Suddenly our walk was full of nano-seconds of brightness; they were everywhere. At home, we stood on the deck, stubborn against the mosquitoes, our eyes open and searching. All those sparks I had registered as the ember-colored tips of cigarettes or sunlight on leaves or eyes in the dark or a coin being tossed, were, in fact, those quintessential East Coast heralds of summer.