We caught them in jars, yes. Jars with lids with holes punched in them. Jars with a paper towel stretched across and held in place by a rubber band. Why? Because we could. Because someone showed us how. I was an adult before someone told me that a firefly (or lightning bug) wouldn’t leave my finger if I kept walking; I test that theory sometimes, but I don’t capture them in jars anymore. That didn’t turn out so well. I dropped the Mason jar and a shard bounced up from the pavement, cutting a neat little crescent in my — let me check — right leg. That was my first trip to the emergency room at St. Agnes, although I needed nothing more than a so-called butterfly bandage.
I once thought I might write a short story in which a woman reviewed her history via her scars. Then I read an Erica Jong novel, in which she detailed the same idea, and decided to abandon it. But do you have a scar? Do you have a story? Not to brag, but — I have quite a few. Right calf, left knee, right eyebrow, right arm, back of right hand and the little curlicue above my lip. Oh, and the awesome pile of scar tissue beneath the second toe on my right foot. I’m not sure which scar tells the best story. Probably the toe.