I wish I could post the fragrance. It borders on too much.
The fireflies can’t be far behind. Any evening now, my youngest will burst in from outside, calling for something to catch them in. In a crate on the back porch, there’s a stash of jam jars with hole-punched lids, a little rusted and dusty, but ready to go. Maybe his teenage brothers will join the chase again this year. Or maybe not. They’re like fireflies themselves now, blinking in and out of view, and I’m the one running behind them with my jar, catching them for a moment, then letting them go.
It’s all so sweet and fleeting–the honeysuckle, the fireflies, these years.