Trees with heavy canopy offer evening solace until weaker hours exert their soft dominion. Fireflies emerge, first a few inconsistent flashes, then full golden static. Father hands me a plastic bat, barrel wrapped in duct tape, light enough for me to whoosh the air. He intends to tire me out before bed. I swing, twirl, look long into the rusting distance. Every so often, I feel a firefly’s plunk, watch the diminutive comet arc like the start of a signature. The wetland’s penumbra blinks like dozens of cameras capturing a rising star. Later, Mother says she sees a slugger in the mirror. There is a yellow that burns so bright it almost turns pale, sallow. That is how I describe the color of my body. It haunts me to this day.