Neko

My dad came home last Monday with a bottle full of fireflies. He said a friend caught them flying about their mango tree. There were so abundant, probably in thousands, that if you raise both your palms, about 20 or so of them will fly bumping thru your arms. You can even catch a handful with your eyes closed. Of course, this is only possible during the night, when the “fire” on the insects’ butt is lit. Now, I’m imagining those tiny yellow sparks flying in such number by the backyard. It must have been so beautiful seeing it for real.

Not until yesterday did my dad remember of telling me that he had a bottle of fireflies. He totally forgot about them if I havent found the bottle on top of the piano in the living room. At first I thought “here’s my dad again with his weird hobbies… Now he’s collecting baby cockroaches“. When I asked him why does he have a bottle of roaches, he was dumbfounded “Oh shit, I forgot to set them free!” Paused and switching looks at me and the bottle, grinning, “They are fireflies, anak“.

Handing the bottle to him, he examined it to see if they were still alive, if even one survived 5 days without food and water. The only thing inside that narrow container was a little piece of branch with leaves. And I doubt if it provided any nourishment at all. Although good thing, there were tiny holes at the cover which provided them air. At least they were not suffocated to death.

Out of 11, seven died. And the four remaining were so weak they hardly even crawl at all. One of them was lying wings down, providing but a faint glow, which indicates it might say goodbye to the rest of his brethren any time soon. Moving the bottle in a circular and slanting motion, one would clearly distinguish the dead from the living. With the possible remaining strength they have, the ones exhaustingly clinging to the glass and leaves gave the manifistation of consciousness. And the rest just glides and slides along with the motion of their dungeon of doom.

Five days of struggle, 11 fireflies, clutching to the only means of survival, air. Just beacause they were inferior to mankind, just because they were innocently flying freely in numbers. They were trapped to a place far from their natural habitat. But to the last moment of each one’s grasp for air, not one showed any of trace of bitemarks. The corpses’ heads were complete, their wings although dry, were still sticking to their tiny backs. Yep, they were not cannibals. And the more amazing thing is that with the given limited space, you’d notice how the dead were lying side by side, as if forming a line, and with their glued driedness squished together. As if 11 insects divided in two groups died in unison or commited suicide spontaneously. Death is indeed inevitable.

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note: the wanna-be novelist in me tries to exaggerate diminutive occurances just to write about something.