The sun had only just set, so
the world still held that
ethereal navy glow. I
was running across my front yard,
young energetic legs churning, carrying
me in my wild youth, as I
chased the yellow-green stars as
they appeared, disappeared,
appeared again. My sister
was near, her sweet laughter
blending with the cicada’s
nightly concert. I remember
having a long stick, which I
foolishly used to strike down
one of the hundreds of lightning
bugs buzzing around me. It
was when I looked down and
saw the poor creature still
clinging to life, light flickering
on and off, that my small heart
broke for what I had done. I
saw myself as a destroyer of
things that I loved. At this
thought, my memory film stops. Now
all I can do is wonder: have I
really stopped destroying
the things that I love?
Have you?
