And I didn’t go buy fireworks today.
Not yesterday, either. Nor will
I buy them tomorrow because you
will not be here to light them.
I realize now what I loved about fireworks
was how much you loved them,
the way you brightened when the fuse was first lit,
the way you glowed near incandescent
as the sparks and colors fountained and flashed.
And rapt in your thrill, I would ooh and ahh.
This is how it is. We shape our lives
around the joys of those we love.
You found joy in the bang, the pop,
the squeal, the repeating boom.
I don’t love the noise. Don’t love
the Sulphury smell. Maybe this year,
your dad and I will sit outside
and watch the sparkle of unmoving stars—
this tradition truer to my own sense of joy.
Maybe a meteor will streak the sky.
If it does, I am sure I will ooh and ahh
the way we used to on the Fourth of July,
the way I still do on any given day
because, despite the ache of missing you,
I’m still stunned by this life,
stunned by the things that bring joy in the dark.
Like the candles I burn. Like holding your dad’s hand.
Like the memory of you. Like stars.