Tonight the sky exploded.
There was so much smoke, it felt like someone lit a floating bushfire right there in the sky above Elizabeth Quay.  Dense grey ghost-clouds yawned their way through the city,
like ancient spectres roused from slumber and already bored.

I think I love fireworks, but not for the reasons you’d think.
These celebrations are always monstrously expensive, and often bring out
the worst in humanity.  Thousands of humans mass themselves on the foreshore and
shout drunken patriotic slogans at each other all night.
All of that I don’t care about at all.

But tonight, I really only saw the lightshow in reflections off our balcony doors, over Rach’s shoulder.  She was watching them, and I was watching her.
She was telling me stories of festivals back in her hometown, back in New Zealand.
Her face would light up with every firecracker, and in her eyes, there were sparks and experiences, little explosions of whimsy in the deep pools of life’s memories.

It reminded 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, and on his face was naked wonder and delight.

That’s why I like fireworks.  For the soft splashes of wonder on all the faces.
The droplets of eternity on our lashes.