My kids spent an
hour naming lightning
bugs. Catching them,
christening them,
setting them free to
fly away flashing with
their newfound identities.
I watched them running
around the yard, skipping,
singing; large animated
movements of joy calling
out to the hills with
fragments of songs. Not
caring about dew-soaked
feet or grass-stained toes.
Enraptured by the moment,
nothing on their minds but
the next bug they’d wrap
their little fingers around
and declare Fred or George,
Pie or Flashlight, no rhyme
or reason, just bliss. I
watched them, and
I wished for that kind of
all-encompassing glee,
but watching them is as
close as I’ll get.