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.