When I was little, my parents and I would go to our local park for the fireworks show on every Fourth of July. All of the suburban families would gather together on picnic blankets with friends and food, awaiting the lights to flash through the sky. Since I’m back in my hometown for the time being, there was no question as to where I wanted to be for Independence Day.
One of my best friends, Miss Jenn, and her 10 year-old son (whom I’ve stapled “my fake nephew) and I headed down an hour early to make ourselves comfortable. Surprisingly, the weather was an unusual case of pleasant for a July summer evening in South Florida- there wasn’t cloud in the sky, the humidity was minor if at all present, and there weren’t mosquitos preying on my ankles.
*Photos by Jenn and I
Once the fireworks began, the crowd became hypnotized. Our city pays a fortune to deliver those magical, colorful explosives that stretch out over the horizon wide and far. I have to say, I do love fireworks. Despite the booming sounds and environmental threats (ha), they give me a strange sense of serenity. It’s like for those few minutes everything is wondrous and possible.
The finale of the show launched a number of fireworks, one on top of the next, crackling and thundering and presenting a chaotic psychedelic kaleidoscope above our heads. By that point we had decided to put down the camera and the cellphones, lay dreamily on our sheet, and take it all in while we gazed overhead. Our eyes were popping and our hearts were dancing. It was a beautiful vision.