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I caught it by chance, happened by the window at the right moment. The colors almost surprised me. It’s like I’d forgotten that once every 24 hours the world has a chance at that kind of drama, all fuchsia and violet and tangerine.
The holidays tend to divide us every year. You love them or you hate them. They’re easy for you or hard for you. A time of comfort or stress. One thing is almost guaranteed, though: Whatever your usual sentiments are about the holidays, they’re probably magnified in 2020.
I remember one summer in New Mexico when so many forest fires ignited across the Southwest it was impossible to escape the scent, and the detritus, of burning land. I’d take my dog on our evening walk around the block, watch the sun blaze red as it sank to the earth against an ashy sky, and then return inside to wipe soot from my face.
I don’t think I’ve ever told you about the fireflies. Now, here in the middle of a pandemic, seems like absolutely the right time. Before I tell you the story, I want to take a moment to repeat a truth that, while being said a lot these days, can never be said too much:
Tonight we moved our bodies and danced like teenage gypsies, with all of the self-consciousness and none of the rhythm, and because it was the first time we had really moved our bodies in days, it felt like freedom.