Those summers were magic. Days spent hunting honeysuckle. Dusk setting in late. The sun was out until well past normal bedtime, but as it set, the sky would begin to glow. Alive, pulsing. The orbs flashing as lighthouses for young boys and girls, beckoning them out into the yards and into the trees and off of porches and out of beds. To capture them was to bottle the night. After we'd placed them on the dresser, jars full of 'em, we crawled into bed and had light that led us into dreams.