The night was cool and still threatening rain, spitting on the windshield as the hour drew closer for the Canada Day fireworks display in my small home town. We sat in the humid car, bundled in our jeans and sweatshirts, socks and shoes pinching our feet now used to running bare inside and outside the house. Around us, clusters of families gathered on lawn chairs, trying to entertain their weepy, tired children. In all the years I have attended fireworks displays, this is the second time my Dad has joined us. For years, my Dad was the one who chose the town’s fireworks and set them off, usually one at a time with a small delay in between them, to make the display seem so much longer. The first time he could join us, his pager went off and he was off to fight a fire.
This year’s display was short but packed with lots of explosions and colours. Little Guy could hardly sit still to watch them, first crouching in the grass, and then leaning against the tree. He couldn’t resist rolling down the hill a few times too. By the time we arrived home, the fresh air and excitement had taken their toll, and we all went sleep dreaming of coloured lights in the sky.