Nightlight

The outside world came into my apartment last night. It does so everyday, I suppose. I see and hear droning flies. The soles of shoes, and the pads of dogs, track soil from the earth to my warped hardwood floors. Last night though, there were sparks.

I have not been too aware of the firefly's brillinat bioluminescence since I was young, since I would gather the bugs in my hands and confine them to glass jars. With squares of tin foil I would secure the jars, and with scissors pock it with little holes. I hoped that the bugs might live. In the morning I would forget them. The only thing to do, days later, was open the window and release the dessicate bodies to the air. There, the wind might carry them. Or, they would fall to the driveway pavement, and turn to dust under rubber tires.

Last night I saw one, a firefly, a lightining bug, flash before my mirror. It pulled me, then on my pillow, from pending sleep. Memories eased back to me, innocently enough, as the brilliant bug landed on my wall. I should have been amazed by the superb biology of the insignifcant insect. Instead, I reminisced. My children, I thought, will torture fireflies like I did. As they do I will smile.

I drifted into slumber. Once, maybe twice, the flash of the lightning bug's bulb brought me back. I watched it crawl along the wall, above the mirror, and closed my eyes.

In the morning it was gone.