Something has been on my mind, something I read somewhere not long ago – I don’t remember where, maybe Nova, or one of the airline in-flight magazines. The article was about the lightning bugs disappearing.
That’s what we called them where I’m from. I like it better than firefly and I wouldn’t even consider ‘glowworm’, not even for its double w.
So I’ve been meaning to bring it up. It seems like something we should be worried about. First it was the bees, now it’s the lightning bugs.
When I was a kid growing up, bees were everywhere: in the spectacularly flowering wegelia bush at the side of our house, in the morning glories that climbed up and down the chain link fence of the backyard dog pen, in the little dandelion-freckled empty lot that abutted my backyard to my best friend Lisa’s, where we shagged fly balls or just lay in the sun making clover flower necklaces and tiaras.
Now they’ve gone. The article said “quietly and without fanfare” but I wonder if somewhere there isn’t a clearing, or maybe a little league field that has fallen into disuse, the ground swarming with bees getting into formation, the drones yelling out orders, the queen up on a podium telling them good luck, and Godspeed.
I always expected my childhood to recede away from me, but I was not ready for it to just fly off like this. I suppose I should have been ready; after all, I was the kind of kid that used to lie awake expecting the lightning bugs would come for me, demanding accountability for all the hundreds of lightning bug cousins who ended up in empty peanut butter jars with holes punched into the lids, or smeared Lord of the Flies – style, at the end of my yellow plastic Wiffle ball bat.
I’d imagine them massing together on my window screen late at night, silently pulsing at me in and out, maybe in tune with the gossip of the frogs and locusts. It was a vision with the sinister appeal of rough justice.
What would they want? I wasn’t sure but the certainty of their eventual arrival never left me. You’d think I’d be relieved at the news they’ve all flown off, no more to fear their silent, waiting judgement. Maybe they are busy lighting the way for the bees – who are travelling only at night for reasons of their own – but I don’t feel relieved. I feel worried.
a very moving post; you obviously have the sensitivity of a writer; I too wonder such things though not about fireflies: we don’t have them down in my neck of the woods
Hi John, thanks for the nice comment. Too bad you don’t have lightning bugs, it’s like you’re missing part of summer without them.
so true 😦
I’ll bet the fireflies got wind of the lies we were told as kids: “You’ll get a dollar in California for every one you catch!” or “The more fireflies you catch, the more sunny days you’ll have to play outside!”
I never heard of either of those! So i have no excuse for how many I captured..I just liked to have lightning in a jar.
Another gem, Sandra. I too had fireflies. I used to think I could communicate with them when one landed on my hand—the meaty part below the sum—and stayed there for what felt like an hour as a fascinated boy. Never caught a firefly again.
Thank you for Liking the home page f Diary of a Serial Killer. I’ve ead your sense of humor and I think you will find it funny.
As always … good work!
thanks Chris – you were much nicer to fireflies than me, when the revolution comes, please tell them for me that I wasn’t really bad, just misguided!
Okay, this is just cool. Poetic, and grim in a way. I love that you “just feel worried,” perfect ending.