Eugene and I were discussing fireflies tonight (before he hastily exited for Race Training... the Tournament is very soon.) He tolerated my head on his Pegasus belly for all but 10 minutes while I waxed poetic about the only thing from my childhood that I actually miss: fireflies.
Not just the shining little bugs, but also the sound of crickets at dusk. The sudden chill when the sun disappears. The little lights burning brighter and brighter as the sky sinks into indigo. The smell of damp earth and the feeling of wet grass beneath my bare feet... jar in hand.
Who gave me that jar? The glassy-eyed eccentric with the apron smeared with Vermouth. The quiet man in the corner. The boisterous boys clamoring for the last bit of food. The crickets. The wind blowing. The ominous sound of barking dogs in the distance.
My jar would be filled and I would stare into it, trying to see where the light was coming from. How did they make such brilliant light when they were such tiny beings? How does it shine so bright that for moments after I can still see the after image burned into the darkness behind my eyelids? I would let them land on me, and be delighted when the light reflected off of my skin. I imagined that they were inviting me into the jar.
And forever, all I have ever wanted, was to shine like that.
After my story, Eugene snorted and flew away... and for a moment, as he ascended into the deep blue sky, I thought I saw him glow.
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