Firefly

Firefly Night by Zefirael Rain, all rights reserved

“The stars are not afraid to appear like fireflies,”

Tagore

The flicker of the first firefly takes me back to Newport News, Virginia, 1970–to the tall grasses of my own backyard where I search for a lost tooth with a flashlight, and leave a note for the fairy to explain the tragedy of nothing under my pillow.

It was the same summer that I (unkindly) received my first kiss, from my neighbor Andy, who was only six–and who was missing both his front teeth–and his hair–because his mother had shaved it for the heat.

I slapped Andy on the cheek and then slammed my screen door in his face, adding a bloody nose to his goofy look–but still we shared his first venison and marveled together at the Praying Mantis discovered in the magical world under the Willow Trees behind our houses.

Virginia. The smell of honeysuckle and steam rising up from the tar.  I loved to pop the bubbles on a hot summer day–and after it rained, I’d put my face to the road to soak up more of that sweet smell– and to prove that: “I’m not afraid of cars running over me.”

More proof was offered on the nearby railroad tracks where I lay to tempt fate  and impress my friends.   Alas, I wasn’t as brave at riding my bike without training wheels. When my father finally forced me to let him let go, I fell onto the concrete sidewalk and split my knee, resulting in a single stitch which he did in the kitchen.

I hardly remember that cut, but I still see the swing hit my baby sister as she toddles toward the four-seat contraption that swung into her face and turned her blue and white striped shirt, red–so that that the three of us sisters–in our look-alike Sear’s short sets–would never match again.

Michelle hardly cried, but I sure wanted to.  I  tried to warn her of the impending collision, but she only smiled harder as she rushed toward my voice.  She still has the slight scar of 9 stitches on her chin–And I still regret that I couldn’t keep her from being hurt.

There were other scars too: the time I walked in on Holly’s father on the toilet; the time I wet my pants in the cafeteria line; and the time I had to stand with my nose pressed against the brick-faced building of my elementary school.

Someone discovered poison oak at the edge of the woods that day and a gang of us had the idea that we should  rub it all over our bodies so that we could miss school.  I was the only one who never broke out in a rash–and thus spent my recesses against the wall.

When I think back to our single year in Virginia, it is always summer, and the radio in our Mustang is playing, Proud Mary, keep on burning–and another song that delighted me more–introducing my seven-year old soul to the playfulness and pain of grownup love.

You had to hope and pray and wait for your favorite song to be played back then. You couldn’t download it in a moment onto an iPOD.

The delight of that elusive tune teases me still, like the light of a firefly, flickering in my mind–on–and then off again–before I can remember it and hold it in my hands to admire.

Other sounds remain strong, like the jingle of the Good Humor truck as it pulls into our cul-de-sac, selling ice cream sandwiches for ten cents.  Foolishly, I would have followed those tinny tunes anywhere.  They still create a quickening inside even though dairy treats and I have long since lost our fond acquaintance.

I remember the world of grasshoppers and ant hills and–lady bug, lady bug, fly away home–and all the small things that only children bend down to know.  But it’s the fireflies that light the way back–to warm summer evenings in the tall grasses of my childhood.

Kelly Salasin, June 2010, Vermont