The inheritance we can't give

I recently learned that fireflies may become extinct in the coming years. I then realised that future generations might never have the chance to witness the awe of hundreds of glowing insects flying in the dark of night.

There's something haunting about being part of the last generation to witness certain kinds of magic. We're living through quiet extinctions - not just of fireflies, but of star-filled skies, wild spaces where grasshoppers leap through tall grass, and mornings that begin with birdsong instead of notifications. These losses happen so gradually that we barely notice until the silence becomes too loud to ignore.

This letter isn't just about fireflies. It's about all the small wonders we're accidentally erasing while building the world we think we want. It's about the weight of knowing that some experiences, the kind that shaped our sense of wonder as children, might die with us.

Maybe writing it down won't bring the fireflies back. But maybe it will help us remember what we're losing, and why that matters. Maybe it will remind us to look for the magic that's still here, while we still can.

Here's what I want to tell the ones who come after us:

Dear ones who will come after us,

I'm writing this on a summer night, sitting by my window where the darkness feels different than it used to. I'd like to tell you about something you may have never seen before.

Fireflies.

They were beetles the size of your thumbnail that carried light in their bodies. On warm evenings, they would rise from the grass in slow, blinking waves. Not a few hundred of them, turning ordinary backyards into something that looked like scattered stars had fallen to earth.

As kids, we'd run outside with mason jars, chasing those tiny lights through the darkness. The real joy wasn't catching them - it was being part of whatever ancient dance they were doing out there. When you cupped one in your hands, you could feel it moving against your palms and see that soft yellow glow pulsing between your fingers. We always let them go.

I remember spending hours in empty lots near my house, trying to catch grasshoppers that would leap away just as my hands closed around them. Ladybugs would crawl up my arm and fly away when they reached my shoulder. Dragonflies that hovered just out of reach, their wings catching the light like tiny stained glass windows.

Those lots are parking lots now. Some of them became homes, but later were abandoned. I wish they could just leave it alone as it was.

I remember when looking up meant seeing stars - not just a few, but enough to make you dizzy trying to count them all. You didn't need to drive anywhere special or wait for a power outage to occur. You just looked up.

I recall waking up to the distant crowing of chickens rather than alarms. I remember how the sunlight gently hit my face to rouse me, not the blue glow of a phone. The shift of light from deep orange to soft yellow indicated what kind of day lay ahead.

The thing is, we didn't mean for them to disappear.

We just made a thousand small choices without thinking about the consequences. Brighter streetlights. Cleaner lawns. More pavement, less wild space. Screens that kept us looking down instead of up. Each decision made sense on its own. Together, they added up to something we didn't see coming.

Now summer nights are quieter. Darker in a way that has nothing to do with the moon. The empty lots are gone. The stars are still there, but you can't see them anymore. We wake up to notifications instead of light.

I wish I could hand you those memories - lying in tall grass while the air itself seemed to come alive, the way wonder felt as ordinary as breathing. But we couldn't figure out how to keep both the conveniences we wanted and the magic we had.

You'll find your own version of these moments. Different lights, different magic, but real all the same. Maybe you'll discover beauty we never imagined, create spaces for wonder we never thought to make.

I hope that when your time comes, you will have beautiful memories to cherish, moments to look back on, and a childhood you fondly reminisce about.

Sincerely,

Your friend,
From Summer 2025.

I hope you find this insightful. Remember:

It's not going to be easy,
But it's not impossible.

Your friend,
Brian.