Gentle Sparks

We finish dinner and head into the back yard to the fire pit. A rain shower has dampened the grass and the air, but the coals in the fire pit are still glowing and the wood easily combusts into bright orange and yellow flames. A pleasant, cleansing smoke drifts around us, keeping the mosquitos at bay, a sphere of warmth enveloping each of us from the glow of the fire. My son gathers some sticks for roasting marshmallows, a double header for his little friend, a single spearhead for himself. Despite the anticipation of the rush of sugar to soon course through his veins, he retains a composure and concentration that can only come from imminent gratification. He carefully roasts his marshmallow at first, then employs a technique of setting the mallow aflame and quickly extinguishing it with huffs of breath. He repeats this act until achieving a deep brown caramelized crust upon the surface of the treat. He allows it to cool slightly before grasping the crust and gently pulling it away, revealing the oozing core, semi-solid and steaming in the chill of the night air. His teeth crunch down on the sugary concoction, satisfaction and appetite competing for primacy. My own mouth waters for the confection and I decide to indulge my greedy want as my son finishes roasting another mallow, combining it with the supplied chocolate and graham cracker, and offers it to me. I put up a false protest, but quickly submit to desire as he insists I take the s'more. He possesses a self-control and constraint that I rarely exhibit. He's eaten his treat, and he's waiting to see if another would be approved by us or condoned by his appetite. I finish the s'more and elicit an audible approval of this indulgence. My son takes this as a sign to eat a s'more of his own. With his usual awareness of content, he eats half of it, offers the remainder to his mother and she allows herself the half-indulgence.


We sit and talk, the fire's ambience supplies enough light for the boys to safely play on the rope-swing suspended from a nearby tree-branch. Everyone is sated and happy when a pinpoint of light flashes in the dark corner of the yard. Then another blue-green flash, and then another. Blue-green and yellow-orange pulses flash and I note that there are fireflies, drawing my son's attention to their presence. "Can we catch them?" he asks, "And put them in a jar?" he further queries. I insist it's better to let them thrive in this environment, but get up to go and see them more closely. The fire has died down and now only glows softly in the bottom of the pit, the yard only lit by the moon, the stars, and the fireflies. We chase them and try to catch them but they are too clever, elusive despite their slow, floating, flight. Our host peers into the country meadow behind his back fence and calls to us. We approach his vantage and I hoist my son to my shoulders so that he can see above the meadow's tall grass. Hundreds of points of light quietly pulse, moving so slowly through the air, mingling and hovering, flashing and glowing, the grey-green stalks of grass with their seeded tips illuminated, the dark midnight blue silhouettes of trees made more obvious by the insect's bio-illuminescence. Hundreds of fireflies in an acre meadow dance and drift toward us. We witness the congregation and marvel at their abundance.


Our host returns from inside the house with a butterfly net, and quickly catches one. There are now dozens of the fireflies in the yard, their flotilla continuing to spill over the fence from the meadow behind. I watch with quiet pleasure as my son borrows the net and catches one after another. We prepare a jar for their conditional captivity, instructing the boys that the bugs should be released to their home after studying them. The excitement is contagious and I and my friend reach a new satisfaction as we watch our sons fulfilled by a simple pleasure. The bugs crawl and pulse and flutter their wings in the jar, their abdomens looking delicate. We turn off the lights and set the jar upon the kitchen table and crouch and gaze at the dozen or so insects, mesmerized by their complexity and beauty. We quietly acknowledge this gift of evolution, this demonstration of biological sophistication found in this tiny entity. Our faces are illuminated by their continued glowing and pulsing and the fireflies light our eyes with gentle sparks.


We transfer some of the fireflies into another container to bring home to the city, to release in our own back yard, with an optimism that they will reproduce and populate. My son is quiet on the ride home, the flashes continuing for the journey. The nagging tug of futility means little as we quietly open the gate to our yard and open the container. The fireflies beat their wings and burst out of the container before quickly landing on the raspberry stalks my father planted. They seem to ponder their new surroundings, continuing to pulse and flash, the ultimate purpose of which to attract a mate, before taking flight again and drifting aimlessly away. A gracious good-night is inaudibly mouthed and we turn from the yard, a backwards glance over the shoulder catching a final glimpse before we enter our home, retiring to our bedrooms, falling to sleep, and dreaming of beautiful things.