The Habits of Astral Fireflies

stargazing and the wishful expectations of my youth image courtesy of www.fireflyexperience.org

The stars have always intrigued me.  As a child, I would prop up my father’s old beach chair on our front lawn in the early evening, a bag of pumpkin seeds in hand.  I would spend hours looking up at the dark mantle above me, snacking on the seeds, dazzled by the bright pinpoints generously strewn across the black expanse above me.   I was fortunate because progress had not yet reached our tiny village back then, and I was afforded an unobstructed view of the evening sky with no skyscrapers and elevated highways to mar the sight, no tall halogen lamp posts or neon billboards to dull the astral glimmer. 

The stars were magical fireflies, older than time that came out at night to frolic… and chatter.  The galaxy was their inky playground; and they told stories in shimmering, pulsing and endless gyrations:  there was the grieving princess who lost her dearest love; she would cast the gems from her crown at night, strewing them across the sky, hoping their jewel brightness would lead her beloved back to her. There was the evil sorcerer whose captives were only allowed a glimpse of freedom at sunset, their eyes blinking sadly down from the blackened heavens above.    

But like all childhood fancies, my star gazing came to an end, the magic that I once found in it, lost in the inevitable journey of growing up.  The stories, too, changed as the accumulated knowledge of life turned them from the enchanted - to the mundane.  The princess’ lost love never found his way back to her; along the journey home, he fell into a more elemental world, and his attention turned from romance to long charts peppered with short letters whose meanings he found more attractive to decipher: C, Al₂O_3, Be₃Al₂(SiO₃)_6.    The princess grew tired of casting her gemstones every night and took up knitting.  The lost souls never escaped, but found contentment and salvation in studying theology, while the sorcerer realized the evil of his ways and, remorseful, retired from wizardry and became a high school principal.

The stars are still there, of course, safe in the night sky.  And though they still pulse and gyrate, they are mostly quiet.  But once in a while, when I start forgetting what it felt like to be young, I recall their stories once again and I am transported back to the front lawn, sitting in a battered beach chair, munching on a bag of pumpkin seeds and gazing up in awe at the soaring fireflies, as they flit from the nest of my imagination to the night sky above.

 

Reviews

[Blossom]

So, here I am, stargazing--through your eyes.
This, and 'The house of my memories' have the same magnetic, nostalgic vein. 'But like all childhood fancies' paragraph takes the biscuit. I oft feel that we need a stronger word than 'good' in 'good ol' days'! You've done a very good job here, Justa. Thanks for lending me those eyes through which I could drink in that captivating vista!

[justa335]

Thank you, Blossom, for the wonderful review.

[Roland Petrov]

I still stargaze every night, though I've graduated from pumpkin seeds to wine. Stargazing with wine just gets better and better the longer you sit there. A gem of a story, Justa.

[justa335]

A glass of wine makes anything better, or is it butter makes everything better? In any case, thank you, Roland. :)

[Blossom]

You, dear wino, are one lucky man! :-)

[Roland Petrov]

That's right; I live in the desert and can stargaze every night. Sometimes I forget that for other people it takes a special night to stargaze as I do.