Fireflies are the signs of summer. They are this bright glow of hope. They seem to say, “winter has past, you can come out now”. Their green ominous glow like magic as you walk down the road. At least, this is what I would tell you if I hadn’t grown up in California. As a Californian, I can tell you there were no fireflies, no glimmer signaling the start of summer. When I read about fireflies in grade school, I would wonder what was so special about them. They were the mythical unicorns of my childhood.
It wasn’t until an adult when I first encountered a firefly. It was in the midwest, Iowa, biking through the woods. The sun was hanging low and there they were. Glowing in short spurts luminance, shining the path for my bike to head towards. They made me smile, and I wondered if I should be a kid at that moment, drop my bike, and try to catch them. Their presence allowed me to finally understand what many writers were talking about in those children books - a glow to the summer.
I don’t understand how something as simple as a glowing green light could make me feel so happy. It set the setting, and for the rest of that night, they were the entertainment. It was more entertainment than any manufactured, designed, or advertised piece of media humans had developed, at least for my tastes. It felt pure, and in a way, the path I was taking was this magical journey down the rabbit hole. And appreciating these tiny things are why we live life, right?