‘Flyers are male,’ he’d said. ‘The girls sit on blades, glowing rather than flashing.’
Swooping the jar like a toy plane, it starts to fill. Then I add foliage to the crawling radiance before stooping next to a gleam in the grass. I tap the female in. The boys find a lightning-like rhythm.
I go to Mum’s room and set the jar next to the bed. She sits up, smiles, and hides the screwed-up tissues. We watch the lights together.