Sitting in chairs borrowed from my brother-in-law, I hold my
husband’s hand like high school sweethearts.
On my other side, my son sits, not yet a man, but wielding the title
with aplomb, graciously accepting the teasing of those behind us because he is,
after all, the tallest man there, and is perhaps, blocking the view of the
fireworks.
I rest my head against Chris’s shoulder, watching the
children in front of us, giddy with excitement, still dripping with pool water,
dancing on the sidewalk, sitting on towels, hair dripping in pool-created dreadlocks. Still in their swimsuits, electric with
excitement, they “ooh” and “ahh” with every firework that blossoms in the
sky. I hear my sister giggle and realize
she is sitting amongst the children, next to my daughter, the
girl-who-is-not-yet-woman.
We look to the sky, watching the planned explosions, the
beautiful colors and designs. I hear
Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” float through the air while fireflies create
bursts of glory, praising their Maker.
Immense power and beauty elicited from purposeful
destruction; the disastrous un-making that is necessary for the re-construction
that creates something wonderful and amazing out of something ordinary and
ugly.
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