Better Than Starbucks!

THE GIFT

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The closest I came to true magic were the fireflies. I loved Tinkerbell so deeply, that I wished she could hear me, wherever she lived, and come visit.  As I walked through the swarms of the blinking lights that visited each summer evening, I hoped that the wink of their light meant the possibility that Tinker had heard me and was soon to grant my desire. Fireflies are without question, fairies and fairies are filled with magic.

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The new suburbs, Northeast Philly, filled with the ubiquitous manicured lawns, parents in aluminum chairs and washed steps. The sons and daughters of immigrants finally reaping their share of the American dream. A magic land for some, for me it lacked the enchantment promised in Neverland.

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If I loved fairy fireflies so much, I can’t imagine what cruelty, jealousy, led me to capture as many of them as I could; imprison them in a jar as if they were mine to keep alone. Perhaps it was the disappointment that no matter how bright, they weren’t Tinkerbell.

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I took no notice of the cruelty of capture. No notice of the crime of taking these soaring beings and bottling them. Guided by a strange need, I tore the light from their bodies and filled small jars with the glowing globes.  Their bright bellies were soft and fragile. The torn insects smelled like the earth; musky and strong.  I wanted to steal their magic, make it mine. Use it to fly away.

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On a night when the fireflies were thick in the air, while I searched among the flickering lights for Tinkerbell, my true love, my mother and father sat, talking with my aunt and uncle on the small concrete patio in front of our house. It was an unusually peaceful night. No fighting about money. Nothing but the warm summer with its velvet air and talk about an anniversary dinner set for the weekend. I watched them for a while, listening to the soft buzz of their voices.  My father looked over to where I stood, saw me staring at him. His face changed to the one that still burned behind my eyes; the look I would never forget.

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Earlier that evening he had handed her a wrapped package. We were at the dinner table, my mother, my sister and I. She took the gift and tore it open, revealing a cheap cotton nightgown, not fancy, certainly not sexy. Plain. For what seemed a very long time, she held the package, staring at the sad gift. I watched his face change, sag and like a turtle, he pulled his head back into his shoulders.   Anne looked up at him with a sadness that went deeper than the disappointment of the nightgown.

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A gift is a gift to a ten year old. Perhaps it wasn’t what you wanted when you dreamed about birthdays, but it wasn’t nothing.

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Then she began to cry.

“Herman,” she began. “we’ve been married for what, eleven years? And this is what you think of me?”

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Her tears became sobs. Then she threw the box at him, the nightgown still in it, hitting him in the face. He sat there as the box slid to the floor. She pushed away from the table and ran out of the kitchen.  My sister, not understanding but acutely aware of my mother’s hurt, also started to cry. She ran after my mother out the door, escaping the dread.

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I moved closer to my father. He stayed seated in his chair, still, silent. I looked at his eyes and saw what no child wants to see. I had no name for it then. Now, having lived much longer and know the feeling, what I saw was infinite sadness and utter defeat. It was the moment he quit living.

I felt nothing for my mother’s grief. The sound of the box hitting him repeated over and over in my head. I couldn’t stop watching my father, waiting for him to get mad. To yell at my mother and tell her that she had no right to refuse his gift. To tell her how much he loved her and that this nightgown was the best nightgown ever made. That when you wore this nightgown it glowed in the dark because it was woven with threads made from a million fireflies. That it was woven from fairy dust and love.

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He sat silently for many minutes, I next to him, waiting. Finally he turned and focused all his grief upon me. No tears, no sound, no anger. Nothing. Overwhelming me with his lack of life. I sank deep into my seat until I could take no more. I jumped off my chair and left him alone.

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When I was a little older, not old enough to stop catching fireflies, I would fill the jar with light, hold it for a few minutes watch the blinking, then slowly unscrew the lid. At first reluctantly, no longer trusting the sky, they would huddle in a group, not one insect leaving, not one flying off. Their short imprisonment made them fear freedom. Then one remembered, rose out of its capture and flew off. Others would follow, but, at the last, I had to tip over the bottle and shake most of them out onto the lawn. They would crawl about, their lights faded or fading, before the truth of freedom or some instinct of it, caused them to rise up into the hot, heavy summer air and be on with firefly business. Imprison them to give them the gift of freedom. Many, however, just sat there, died there, ruined by my touch.

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Tinkerbelle never showed up. I stopped believing in fairies. 

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Allen Plone lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Carol & his dog Rufus. He draws inspiration from both. Professionally, a screenwriter, he's published several short stories, including the award-winning THE COWBOY OF MY HEART. His love for writing comes directly from his love of reading, something he's done every day of his life since 5 years old.