I waited 36 years to see them again; looking, in every forest, in every state I visited, for bright spots of yellow light between the trees. At the age of four, the fireflies captivated me. They blinked like disembodied light bulbs—on, off, on, off—mesmerizing my young mind long before Disney princesses. Quickly I learned that despite my joy at capturing them in a mason jar, holes carefully poked in the metal top by my little hand wrapped in Grandpa’s big one, it only made them sad to be kept. I determined to hold them only in the night, gently in my hand, as late past my bedtime as Grandpa would allow.

My sister remembers it differently. Her mind was imprinted by bats that flew above my nighttime wonderland, silhouetted against the pale black of a Pennsylvania sky. She lodged a fear of one tangling in her hair and, in reflection, her older-sisterness probably felt responsible for ushering me off to bed with bat-free locks as well. I’m sorry she didn’t get to enjoy the fireflies.

Maybe I should invite her now. Away from the heat of Phoenix to my temporary home in the deep south. To walk along the river at dusk and watch the fireflies sparkle. It’s my turn to protect her now. To take her away from life stresses and bring her back to wonderland. Maybe I can be her firefly, glimmering tiny flashes of beauty and love that she’ll remember.

People say there are less of them these days—the fireflies. I think that makes it more important than ever to take every chance to see them, to lose myself in a moment of magic where silence and light and night are bigger than me. Bigger than the world.

After 36 years, joy still fits in the palm of my hand.