Fireflies
I remember when I was little, I would catch fireflies. I loved how the light would flicker, how one second you would see them, and the other times you wouldn’t. To me, it reminded me of people. Sometimes you would see their light, other times you wouldn’t. It was always my mission to catch at least one firefly. My mum always told me that as long as you had one good friend, that’s all you needed. So, I made the firefly my friend. I would keep her in my room, and eventually, I’d wake up and find that the firefly was not shining. It wouldn’t even move. I realized that my friend left, to another world, to another galaxy, without me.
I would cry because I lost my friend. My mother would explain to me that it suffocated because of the lack of oxygen in the mason jar. That tin, with the imprinted edges, killed my friend. Or, was it me? Did I love the firefly too much? Did I try and keep something that wasn’t meant to stay? Why does this always happen to me?
I was heartbroken. I killed her, and no one said otherwise. I would play with the firefly every night, and I’d think about her during the day. Why couldn’t she stay? I believed every firefly was different from the last one. That this one could withhold not having oxygen. That this one could live through a night with me containing them. That this firefly could handle my love, my wanting and desire to keep it. But, as much as I convinced myself that the next firefly would stay, my heart would know defeat come the rise of the morning sun.
It was two summers ago that I realized that the fireflies that shine the brightest in the world are not meant to stay. Someone convinced me, against my own intuition and experience, that maybe I had found a firefly would stay. But, now I am realizing that maybe I tightened that lid too tight, that I loved too hard, that I took all the oxygen out of her lungs. All I am left with is a firefly that doesn’t light up like it used to. Just a memory of a firefly, and how we danced in the night. How do you make love stay?