early summer night’s dream

My San Diego vacation partner has yet to upload our trip photos, so there is nothing to see here. In their place, I shall tell an enthralling story.

I stepped out last night for detergent, Laughing Cow wedges, and Diet Coke, all staples of the happy thirtysomething existence. It was a nice night, the warm and sticky kind that wraps you in a wet blanket. Like floating in the Gulf of Mexico in August. Well, I like it.

As I pulled the Sentra into the only spot my kind neighbors left within a six-mile radius, I noted a surefire sign of summer hovering above the dash: the firefly. First only one, then two, tiny wings and big, bright bulbs. I followed the second firefly across the street and nearly squeed with glee as it paused on a blade of overgrown grass. Summer, if not already here, was well on its way.

I wanted so much to share my sweet find so I cupped the firefly in my hands and brought it into the apartment. Cricket moved not from her kitchen table perch, but my firstborn, Bug, was immediately drawn to it. He followed the insect as it landed on the window screen; his pupils grew as the firefly flashed its light off and on. Off and on. Complete fixation. I smiled as I turned to unload my goodies and positioned myself with no room to act. My boy swatted the lovely bug out of thin air, trapping it on the marble windowsill underneath a brawny paw. And then he slowly moved his oversized mitt to reveal his twitching catch.

And then he ate it.

Oh well. None of that really happened. But I did think about it happening when I saw a firefly and contemplated domesticating it. And again, there were no pictures to see here, so I hope you at least enjoyed the made up story as much as Bug enjoyed his pseudo time out. Happy Tuesday.