Molly Calls the Lightning Bugs

Part of what makes something magical is its ephemeral quality. It doesn’t last, bust swims before us a moment, like a dream or mirage. Something that dances on the wind, a breath of colorful fragrance, a song, a memory. It does not last. Perhaps even the memory becomes watery reflection, but the feeling. The sparkle and the pure joy! That elusive, exquisite, perfect delight: the memory of that feeling lives forever.

A little girl adds fairy lights inside her climbing tree. They twinkle, just like fireflies, and she uses them to invite the summer-bringers in. She calls to them in song, “Lightning bugs, come and play, lightning bugs, you’re so great! Come into my tree with me, and I’ll throw you a party!” Then smiling wide, she throws a handful of crumbled leaves into the air. The confetti falls, with my spirits. For how could the world ever be so Eden-like, so purely perfect, as at this moment right now? With the smell of magnolia wrapping round us in the purple glow of twilight, a soft breeze to caress our smiling faces and dance with us as we call to the lightning bugs, and the girl. The chubby cheeked, curling red-haired, freckle-speckled, giggling beauty! This is what Heaven is. One day I will forget this moment, and so will she. But I will never forget how it feels to be a mommy, and I have failed if ever she forgets how it feels to be a kid.