They stay in there. For me, they are in a silver filigree box with sapphires. A child might store them in a box of colored sprinkles. A man might store them in a dark wooden box. Maybe others would tuck them in a Faberge egg. Whatever the mind's container, they would sit there... and wait... for every time a summer moment was beckoned to return.

A year ago - July 27^th- Can’t forget it. I was pulling around the driveway as I have done so many, many times. Dusk had begun to appear like grey powder filtering down from the sky. I was calculating the amount of grocery bags in my car and wondering if I could carry them all in one trip. Yanking all of the bags out from the trunk I slowly trudged up the brick walk.

Suddenly, something from the the lawn caught my eye. Jerking to a halt, I turned and gasped. Dropping the bags to the ground, I flew to the door and tumbled inside. "Quick!" I hollered. “Where is that jar with the holes on top???” I flung open the kitchen cabinets and rifled through the drawers never shutting any of them. By now, my husband, Greg, and son, Michael, were standing at the kitchen door with a startled, “hunh?” I always expect people to just start moving quickly without giving them an explanation.

Found a jar.

“Hurry!" I hollered over my shoulder, "Come look out on the lawn!" Down the steps full throttle bang, bang, bang to the small circle of grass we call our lawn. It is the size of a putting green. The area was completely wooded until we plunked down the small patch of grass. Trees hover over the lawn as if hiding it from the sky.

The three of us stood like lanterns on the periphery of the lawn. "I have never seen anything like this," I whispered in awe. "Me either," Michael whispered back…

Fireflies...hundreds, thousands, millions of them.

It was as if tiny white lights had broken loose from their string and were out celebrating their independence. They bounced, darted and blinked – no pattern or rhythm to their dance. We chased them like a wild Easter Egg hunt. "Ooh, ooh, I got one...nope…yes?...” Left...right....under...over.

I don’t know why or how, but I have no childhood memories of seeing fireflies. They are completely new to me, as if they were just invented. On that July evening, I could finally join the rest of the world in saying - I caught a firefly.

I took the precious jar into the house and popped it on the counter. Shut off the lights. Nothing. Tapped on the jar. Nothing. Turned on the lights. Nothing. I guess that fireflies are no different than human beings. When we feel trapped, we lose our luster, our light.

       Picking up the jar, Greg, Michael and I went back outside. A symphony of cicada bugs, bullfrogs and crickets drowned out the distant sound of traffic and deadlines. I opened the jar and set the bug free where it came alive amidst its own kind. Contrasted against the night, the brilliance of the fireflies grew like a snowfall in reverse.

        Every time I walk by that spot of land, I return to that July night. They have not returned with such numbers or magnitude. Maybe they never will. But, that’s OK. If I close my eyes and reach for that filigree box with the blue sapphires, I know just where the fireflies went.