"In the evening hours my brothers and I filled mason jars with lightning bugs to keep as night lights after the candles were blown out so Dad could chase the neon lights of fame, playing low-ceilinged honky-tonks up and down the Carolinas and sometimes into Georgia. When I woke each morning, Dad was always sleeping the deep sleep of whiskey and defeat on the couch with his cowboy boots still on, his guitar in its case by the door, and my lightning bugs upside down with suffocation in the grass at the bottom of their jars."
From Low Country by J. Nicole Jones
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