Fireflies

When will I stop missing the wide-eyed era of my girlhood?
Catching fireflies in glass jars in the sticky, summer air. Bare feet in the grass,
it all seemed attainable then. The world at my fingertips, 
the realization each morning of having the whole day ahead.
What would I do? 
Would I put on my pretty pink swimsuit and imagine I was one of the assured, older girls with their perfect saunters and flawless tans?
Or would I play outside with the girl across the street, 
my pretend sister, with golden blonde hair that looked just like mine. 
I don’t recall her name, but I still have pictures of us in a fading scrapbook. 

I still look for those girls from thirteen summers ago; the ones who felt so reachable, and the ones whose perfect aura dripped with confidence. 
I always assumed that one day I’d feel like those girls at the pool,
effortlessly crafted, wanting to imitate them but knowing it’d be futile. 
Instead, not too far down is that little girl who still feels like she never gets it right. 
I’ve learned to enjoy my awkwardness and turn into into something that resembles charm.
Still, I see girls on impeccable promenades and I’m instantly eleven again, 
discovering that those things don’t come so easy…
maybe one day it’ll all click. I imagine it will feel like closing the lid on a jar full of fireflies.