On Fireworks

When was the last time you saw fireworks? Were you on a rooftop? On the beach? Were you in your apartment overlooking the river?

The last time I saw fireworks, there was not a single spark in the sky. There were no embers in the air, just my fiery passion; no explosion on a boat, just the loud pounding of my heart. I wasn’t bracing myself for excitement, but there was the embrace of someone else.

Y’know, there’s a thrill to real fireworks. It’s why you setup blankets and chairs so many hours before hand – you want to get the perfect view. You wait and wait because you know it’s gotta be good. Everybody says it is, so has it to be true. “Its something you must experience, ” they promise. “You gotta see it, gotta feel it,” they push. And so you do.

But, inevitably, the first time you go for fireworks on your own, you do it like a fool. You get it all wrong. You went to any old park and the show was a bust. It was too loud, your chair was uncomfortable, and you did it with the wrong people. You weren’t ready for the experience. You convince yourself: never again. Or at least not for a long time.

Do remember that night we watched the fireworks together? We watched from my dorm room window and I could hardly breathe. We were new, we were younger, and anything was still possible. It was when romancing was easy to do. The days were a series of things we did together with daydreams of each other filled in between. The rest of the world was mere background noise. I can’t even remember what season it was. Come to think of it, I don’t even recall the fireworks outside my window.

However, I do recall truth and sincerity. I remember that there was patience, and kindness, and everything I never knew I needed. I wasn’t looking for thrill and I didn’t try to prepare myself for it. But apparently I did it right, because there were the fireworks. They were bursting right in front of us and we could hardly look away.