I've always loved fireworks, but there came a point during my teenage years when I realized that every time I saw fireworks, I wanted to be in love so much that it ached a little.
They just have that effect for some reason, don't they? They make you want to have a hand to hold and arms wrapped around you, someone to squeeze a little tighter as they go "BOOM" in the sky. Fireworks made me feel alive, and I wanted someone to share in all of that with me, because awe shared is exponentially better than being awed alone. Whenever I saw them, I wanted to adore someone and to have them adore me back, to share the moment with me. So I decided that I needed to be in love to fully enjoy a firework show.
I am not in love.
And while I've never stopped liking fireworks, they had definitely lost some of their magic for me. Watching them alone stopped making my heart ache sometime during college, but I also stopped deeply drawing in breath as they lit up the sky, stopped staring, captivated and grinning, as displays went off, stopped getting that beautiful, warm sensation all over my body that reminds me how very alive I am.
Tonight, a visiting group of volunteers put on a firework show as a surprise for the kids at the orphanage to celebrate their last night before leaving. A few adults got the fireworks ready while the rest of the visiting volunteers and the 120-something kids and a few of the teachers sat up against the opposite wall, getting ready for the show. They passed out popsicles and the younger kids found laps to sit in, and we waited as they started to light the fuses.
I am not in love.
But Antonio found me and sat at my side, and little Willy let out a joyous, "TEACHER!" and leaned back against me with his legs stretched out, happily sucking on an orange popsicle, and Gladys carefully studied and held up the glow stick she was wearing around her neck and asked me what it was called. And then they started. And these were not cheapo backyard fireworks, let me tell you-- these were 4th of July quality. My eyes widened as burst after burst lit up the sky. I smiled at Antonio, remembering how one of the first nights I got to spend at the orphanage was New Years Eve, and remember how we had just become friends and he spent the whole night bringing me sparklers because he'd learned that I loved them. As though he was reading my mind, he looked up at me with the reflections of the fireworks dancing in his eyes and a sweet, knowing smile-- "Teacher, you remember the first night.. ?"I laughed. "I do... I definitely do," and I hugged him closer. And I watched, eating a popsicle that tasted like a mixture of blue raspberry and hand soap, soaking in the moment. Willy would turn around at each particularly spectacular burst of light and look at me with wide eyes, laughing in delight, sharing his awe. And my heart drank it in, and I remembered that I am indeed quite alive. And I realized that maybe I was wrong about watching fireworks. Maybe, you don't have to be in love for them to be special, because I don't think that I will ever forget these moments and all of the beauty in them, and I am not in love.
Or maybe, I am. Maybe it just looks a little different than I thought that it would. And maybe that's beautiful.
They just have that effect for some reason, don't they? They make you want to have a hand to hold and arms wrapped around you, someone to squeeze a little tighter as they go "BOOM" in the sky. Fireworks made me feel alive, and I wanted someone to share in all of that with me, because awe shared is exponentially better than being awed alone. Whenever I saw them, I wanted to adore someone and to have them adore me back, to share the moment with me. So I decided that I needed to be in love to fully enjoy a firework show.
I am not in love.
And while I've never stopped liking fireworks, they had definitely lost some of their magic for me. Watching them alone stopped making my heart ache sometime during college, but I also stopped deeply drawing in breath as they lit up the sky, stopped staring, captivated and grinning, as displays went off, stopped getting that beautiful, warm sensation all over my body that reminds me how very alive I am.
Tonight, a visiting group of volunteers put on a firework show as a surprise for the kids at the orphanage to celebrate their last night before leaving. A few adults got the fireworks ready while the rest of the visiting volunteers and the 120-something kids and a few of the teachers sat up against the opposite wall, getting ready for the show. They passed out popsicles and the younger kids found laps to sit in, and we waited as they started to light the fuses.
I am not in love.
But Antonio found me and sat at my side, and little Willy let out a joyous, "TEACHER!" and leaned back against me with his legs stretched out, happily sucking on an orange popsicle, and Gladys carefully studied and held up the glow stick she was wearing around her neck and asked me what it was called. And then they started. And these were not cheapo backyard fireworks, let me tell you-- these were 4th of July quality. My eyes widened as burst after burst lit up the sky. I smiled at Antonio, remembering how one of the first nights I got to spend at the orphanage was New Years Eve, and remember how we had just become friends and he spent the whole night bringing me sparklers because he'd learned that I loved them. As though he was reading my mind, he looked up at me with the reflections of the fireworks dancing in his eyes and a sweet, knowing smile-- "Teacher, you remember the first night.. ?"I laughed. "I do... I definitely do," and I hugged him closer. And I watched, eating a popsicle that tasted like a mixture of blue raspberry and hand soap, soaking in the moment. Willy would turn around at each particularly spectacular burst of light and look at me with wide eyes, laughing in delight, sharing his awe. And my heart drank it in, and I remembered that I am indeed quite alive. And I realized that maybe I was wrong about watching fireworks. Maybe, you don't have to be in love for them to be special, because I don't think that I will ever forget these moments and all of the beauty in them, and I am not in love.
Or maybe, I am. Maybe it just looks a little different than I thought that it would. And maybe that's beautiful.
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