“Make a wish,” she whispered.
My grandmother, who had been watching from the screen door, came out with a jar. She didn’t say a word. She just held it open, and one by one, we caught three fireflies inside. We pressed our faces to the glass, watching the tiny lights blink in the dark.
The salt crusted on my skin like tiny diamonds, and the sun had painted my shoulders a shade of pink that promised to peel by morning. It was the last evening of our summer vacation, and for the first time in two weeks, no one was in a hurry.