Glass Coffins
Fireflies
I am a barefoot girl running through the blue grass, wet with dew. The humid Kentucky air keeps the hair around my forehead damp, I don’t notice the tiny sweat dripping because I am running. No one is watching, and I am reaching, pulling from thick air fireflies and stashing them in Grandmommy’s glass canning jars. One, two, three, until the jar is filled with a bioluminescence glow. It is at this moment that I am sure. No, I am positive there is a God. Stumbling home with the lid on tight, I drift into a summer slumber accompanied by thousands of cicadas, only to awaken to a glass coffin filled with delicate, harmless, extinguished fireflies.