10 was a reasonable age. Old enough to appreciate the glow of a firefly in the dark cup of your best friend’s hands. Wishing through her fingers for longer summers, longer legs, less pain. Behind you, the older boys swarm like bees: electric skin and elbow jabs. Pulling invisible rank to make unbalanced teams as their younger sisters resist the calls to cheer, favoring the outfield. And in three years when you are their age, you may still find fascination in that glow. Or bored by fireflies, opt to hang out in bedrooms stuffing tissues in your bra, an arc of warm eyeliner in the rim of your eyes.
Tiffany Sciacca is an ever-emerging poet, newly attached to Flash Fiction. Past works have appeared in Local News: Poetry About Small Towns and Luna Luna Magazine where she is also part of the staff. When not writing or reading, she sells vintage books on Etsy