Fireflies

Short Story about the disappearance of fireflies and my childhood counterpart.

Some things disappear as we age and memories fade. But some stick with us stronger than others, those that have a solid foundation or repeated event that help our long term memory hold onto them stronger than others. Pictures can help us remember, but then its a question of whether we remember the picture of the event, or do we actually remember the event itself. No, the real memories of the events themselves are those that we treasure more than any other.

For instance, I remember the long, long slip-n-slide down the backyard hill at my grandparents' house in Mabank. I was old enough then for the memories to have stuck in my head. I remember their boat and the few times we actually went out on it for tubing fun. These weren't super common occurrences, but they were such fun that I can't help but remember them.

I remember lazing on the tube rides at Schlitterbahn, stuck in the eddies and trying desperately to grasp hold of dad's hand to help pull us free only to pull him back into it with us. We went there so often its hard to forget the fun we'd have there each summer.

And then there were the fireflies. Possibly my earliest memory and such a pale example compared to the other memories of my childhood. But still, spending warm muggy evenings out in the yard, glass jar on the porch ready to receive our captives. We would marvel at the glittering lights that would flash on and off beneath the spreading branches of the oaks, chasing them with glee in our attempts to catch them.

They were so numerous, turning their little yellow butts on and off as they flittered through the yard, that as dusk creeped on to night, we still felt like we could see the outlines of the trees, playset, swings, and house. Nevermind that we spent so much time outdoors in those days that we could likely have run around outside with our eyes closed and never hit a thing.

Finally, cupped hands would close around a silent bug, and we would cheer with excitement. Slow hands would open just enough for a nose and two eyes to peek inside to see the bug turn on its yellow light for a second or two, then turn dark once more. And at last we could see exactly what the bug looked like without its glowing rear. Nothing special, really, just a bug. We'd take it over to our glass jar with the holes drilled into the lid for air, and maneuver the bug into the jar with ease and care. Repeat this a few times and we'd be rewarded with an intermittently glowing jar of tiny bugs that brought such a smile to our faces.

A memory saved, but not one to be shared.

For just thirty-some-odd-years later, there are no fireflies flitting through the garden or yard for my son to enjoy. Same town, same muggy evenings, maybe a bit warmer than it was in those years before. No fireflies. No memories to repeat of bug chasing and capturing in a large glass jar. Just still, soupy air, filled with evil, biting mosquitoes, rather than fun glowing yellow butts.

Simple games such as catching fireflies are a thing of the past. Not only have their numbers dwindled so they hardly exist, extinction threatening due to light pollution and habitat destruction, but young children in this day and age have no interest in spending time outside finding things to occupy their minds.

There is less reason to be outdoors, climbing trees, chasing bugs, than we had in those years before. Now, its much more interesting to watch tablets or phones, play computer or video games. Short videos drive their attention to miniscule foci. Boredom is a thing of the past, to be overcome immediately by overbright screens rather than sticks in the mud, or picturing animals in clouds. Boredom has been eliminated, and with it creative invention.

The world has changed so much that such a simple creature as the firefly, a staple of my childhood years, no longer exists in the night air for my son to enjoy. I can only tell him of my enjoyment of them of years gone by, only for him to look at me with lack of understanding for my wish to catch simple bugs outdoors when he would much rather collect tung tung tung sahur and other such accurately ascribed brainrots.

What have we done?