Tonight the sky is exploding.
Trails of fizzy light erupting in spectacular bouquets of pink and green and blinding white. There's so much smoke, we can’t see the stars anymore. Below our balcony, there are heavy grey ghost-clouds just yawning their way through the city, like ancient spectres roused from slumber, and already bored.
I love fireworks, but not for the usual reasons. Celebrations like these are always monstrously expensive, and often just bring out the worst in us. Thousands of humans massing themselves on the foreshore and shouting drunken patriotic slogans at each other all night. I don’t care about that at all. But tonight, I'm only seeing the lightshow in reflections: glimpses in the bathroom glass, the kitchen chrome, the bedside lamps over Rach’s shoulder, and the tiny starfalls in her moon-earrings.
She is watching the sky, and I am watching her. She’s telling me stories of festivals back in her hometown, back in New Zealand. Her face lights up with every firecracker, and in her eyes are sparks of experience, little explosions of whimsy in the deep pools of her memories.
It reminds me of the first time I brought Sebastian to a firework show.
He was barely two years old, and he sat in my lap and laughed at the sky. His tiny hands reached out, grabbing at the fireflies, his face awash with delight and glory.
This is why I like fireworks. It’s the soft splashes of wonder on all the faces.
The droplets of eternity on our lashes.