Tonight we lay in the grass and I took pictures in the dark and the boys ran around like crazy people. Gray carried his little bug cage with a lightning bug in it, his hands smelling like a lightning bug (they have a smell).
Smells like my childhood summers.
Once, when I was a little girl I left my crayons in a pencil box in the sun on the picnic table. I burned my fingers in the colors... they melted and ran together. Made new colors. They were beautiful and naughty.
This is the kind of post you write to a soundtrack.
This is the kind of post I try to lasso time. This fleeting time. Time that slipped through a crack in the door long ago.
Gray wants to bring his bug cage into the house and I say why not. I had pickle jars with jagged holes poked with a steak knife in the lids, grass and sticks swishing and clinking against the glass, resting next to my bed. I wished for them to light up as I drifted off to sleep.
In the morning they would be "sleeping" or had disappeared.
Kinda like time.
A lot like time.
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