Firefly Nights

I like to call these the Firefly Nights. The orange and pink tint of sunset paints the western sky, and dusk begins to fall as the thermometer dips its toes below 80 degrees. There is just a faint whisper of a breeze, and as you sit on your front steps, you wish the weather could be like this all year long. (You think about this some more, and realize it could be if you lived in Miami.) You think about going in for some ice cream, but it’s just too beautiful to move. And just when it seems the night couldn’t be more pristine, the flickers begin.

Their neon yellow lights shine, then vanish – there’s one, in the driveway! Another, over by the bush! Here’s one, right above us! Don’t hurt him, Katie – OK, you can hold him but don’t squeeze him.

She holds a small black insect in her hands. It sits there uncomfortably for a moment, like a dog being walked by a toddler. Finally, Katie opens her hands, and the bug flies away, only to illuminate his lower half for her – for us – as it elevates into the evening sky.

Fireflies are indeed the metaphor for summer. So perfect. So beautiful. And yet, so fleeting. Just when you feel like you’re settled into firefly mode, they’re gone. And so is summer.

If there is one day that best captures the fleeting nature of summer for me, it’s that second Tuesday in July. The evening of baseball’s All-Star Game. The night when the sport of summer celebrates its best players and puts them all on the same field. For young baseball fans, it’s the stuff of dreams, watching your heroes dueling it out in matchups you’d never see on any other day. In a lot of ways, it’s the most perfect game of the season.

And then it’s gone. As I write this, it’s already been gone for 24 hours. Tomorrow, baseball’s second half begins. In two weeks, we start hearing about the “dog days of August.” Even worse, the sports section begins reserving primary space for football training camp.

But this week, if you sit outside after dinner, you can still see those little night lights as they throw their annual summer bash together. They are the real all-stars, the true fireworks, the swarming of the Bastille. Summer is still fresh, they tell us – fresh as some Jersey corn, or a soft peach.

When I was about 10 years old, I used to go after fireflies with my yellow Wiffle ball bat. I guess it was boy stuff, and eventually I’d listen to my parents and stop. But today, no way; I’ll take my swings somewhere else. I’d rather savor the beauty. I don’t want those fireflies to leave any earlier than they must.