There was something magical about summer nights in my childhood. The air smelled of grass and adventure, the sky stretched wide with endless possibilities. And then, as if by some secret signal, the fireflies would arrive.
One evening, my cousins and I ran barefoot through my grandmother’s backyard, empty jars clutched tightly in our hands. We giggled as we chased the tiny glowing creatures, capturing them one by one.
But something felt off.
I watched as my cousins excitedly screwed the lids on their jars, turning the once-free fireflies into prisoners. I hesitated. Holding one in my hands, I could feel its delicate wings fluttering against my fingers. It felt… wrong.
“What’s wrong?” one of my cousins asked.
I looked down at the tiny creature, its light flickering. Then I whispered, “What if they have families? What if their babies are waiting for them to come home?”
Silence.
For a long moment, my cousins stared at me. Then, one by one, they opened their jars.
We watched as the fireflies blinked their tiny lights in thanks and disappeared into the night, free once more.
That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about how easy it is to forget that even the smallest lives matter. Even at that young age, I knew one thing: kindness isn’t just about helping people—it’s about helping anything that breathes.