As children on the lawn at dusk,

we chased the slow, pulsing light of fireflies,

armed with jars and nets,

but it was you who caught one in your hands,

and we listened when you told us to be still,

as we gathered round and waited for the pulse,

and when it shone, present for us at last, we could no longer be still,

we squealed and ran in all directions,

so simple was pleasure for us then, so little did we need to marvel,

and you were still alive, of course, and our family still hung together.