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What I Learned From Fireflies and Sparklers

I don’t need to look at pictures because I hold snapshots in my heart. I close my eyes and picture my son running down the hill with a star-spangled top hat perched on his toddler head. The next year he holds hands with his sister, with red, white and blue goggles flopping behind his ears as they jump into the pool.

I replay memories on this Fourth of July. I stare at my fourteen year-old son’s face. He seems so mature and contemplative as we banter about this year’s menu. I laugh at his request for sparklers again this year.

I add them to my grocery list. I suppose we’re never too old to want to light up the sky with the loopy cursive of our names. I secretly hope he’ll always want to see the fireflies awaken.

If I close my eyes I can see the scene from years earlier, when the kids were nine and seven. Dusk is just settling and we begin to see the flickering lights along the path. My son pokes holes in the lids of mason jars at the picnic table. Wooden flags are pressed into the Georgia clay around the campsite and his sister bursts from the camper, ecstatic this July 4th.

 {photo by Cindee Snider Re}

                                                                                                                                                                      

(I’m writing over at Outside the City Gate today…join me there?)                                                                      

 

 

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