I ventured out to the wilds of the next town over tonight, for music that didn't turn out to be that good. On the way home my companion drove fast and I tipped my head back against the seat and stuck my arm out the passenger window and watched the dark roadside scenery unfurl. I noticed the flashes of fireflies in the long grass. The sky has been hazy and still and humid all week and the thick summer air tickled the hairs on my arm as we zoomed along. I haven't seen fireflies yet this summer and seeing them opened a vault in my head. It made me remember a place where the road divides a field on the way out to Cousin's Island, and a night in June long ago when I sat with my cousins under the stars, surrounded by hundreds of fireflies and the salty smell of the ocean. It made me remember the sensation of a firefly walking on my left hand, blinking its green phosphorous light and holding me mesmerized by the magic I had so close to me. I remember standing perfectly still, my finger tickling, hoping it wouldn't fly away, and the inevitable moment when it unfolded its wings and disappeared.