We built the treehouse up in the old hickory tree

we would sleep up there

to escape the heat from the little cottage 

our grandfather built back when he was young and strong

and not hunched over with age.

At night, we would watch the dancing lights of the fireflies

beckoning to their future mates.

It wasn’t lethargy that kept us lying there for hours,

but the magic of sleeping just below the treeline

with the sounds from below,

a pleasant white noise.

My brother wanted to trap some fireflies in a bottle to 

use as a nightlight, he said.

He tried to mask his cruelty by playing it off as some brilliant idea,

but I knew better.

Some people are just jealous of those that light up the dark.