Listen to the author reading this story:
He said there are fireflies still in North Carolina. Real ones flyin’ around outside, freely. You don’t even have to visit a nature preserve to see them, “Like, you don’t even gotta pay to see ‘em. Real ones — still,” he said, “there are fireflies still.”
Gets grey some days to be knowing things, like designed obsolescence, or how recycling isn’t even for real. All the books are sad, and men design atomic bombs. Women’s thoughts become so sour they ferment inside their mouths; we all know people who produce the poison they pour: Acid Anger Abuse Toxins Torture Trouble.
But then, you said you see fireflies glowing outside your door. You said there’s fireflies still.
One of those surprise delights like the cosmos snapped a zap of electricity at you — suddenly you’re stimulated for another sip of yourself. Like when you’re on a road trip in America and the talk in the car went stale hours ago. You pull off for a stop and find yourself back in time: It’s The Americana Café! Next thing you know you’re enchanted by the pleasures of red vinyl booths, a quarter-song jukebox on every table, laminated menu, more pies than salads, and every soup looks good. You’re ordering a milkshake, laughter, cherry stems, straw wrappers, spoon on the nose, singing 60s songs.
In the car you had nothin’ to say, it was hours of silence — just nothing to say, then your hands are colliding in a basket of chili fries. Mouths morph into motors, and it’s bright talk about
baseball cards, walkie talkies, your favorite snorkel, did your mom bake your birthday cake? The rest stop becomes some significant memory, surprise reminder that delights exist on this planet still, like when he told me there’s real fireflies in North Carolina.
He said, “There’s fireflies still.”
Kaylee Baucom lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, in the USA, where she is a Professor of English at the College of Southern Nevada.
I really enjoyed the voice in this, Kaylee. And the quiet hope. Thank you for reminding us of the fireflies.