1. You and the firefly converged. But then you didn’t.
2. I watched the lightning bug and said nothing. You were talking.
3. Each time I thought a firefly would be caught up on you, it was drawn through your stride.
4. I learned to do a lot of things from my elders, when I was little, and those were quiet, slow times when what happened was a story and a step, and a story and another step. There is a beauty to a quiet room with a clock ticking and a silent repeated effort and a little praise and a correction over days that last forever, finished by fireflies lighting a darkening sky you watch because you had to go to bed at eight though there was still an hour before sunset. And you had to be in bed without a light, the hug and the kiss done, nothing else to do but to find faces hidden in the shadow and light of the leaves of the huge chestnut, older than your father, and to wait for the million lights you knew would start in awhile and that looked like the milky way, which sometimes you could also see.