Grateful for Fireworks

I am grateful for fireworks, celebration expressed in explosion. I am glad to gaze upon the night sky, speckled with sparkles of many colors. In the desolate sky, the fireworks rage against the seeming void with violent beauty and percussion. What was once dark and empty becomes lively with light and thunder. Under the all-encompassing blanket of night, the people exclaim that we are here, that we are alive, that we are happy. I am thankful to see the pops and booms, crackles and twinkles, and rays and ribbons. Under the incendiary beauty, a quizzical feeling stirs, one of awe and reflection. As bombs blow up the night, there is destruction and yet there is creation. As I look up at the fiery show, I wonder if life is like a firework. That which becomes, no matter the beauty and power, can only be for so long. When I or a firework meets our finale, we’ll cease to be in the form that was our function, but we will remain. At the end, when the last firework has fired, the remnant smoke wisps. The prior light, heat, and sound have gone somewhere else, across the skies and into eyes, conserved and remembered.

I am grateful for fireworks.