Fireworks.

(I actually wrote this in my head a few days ago, waiting to post as I knew it would become non-fiction tonight, as it did. Very rough, but I'm happy enough with it. Lyric credits to Norah Jones's Carnival Town. I recommend playing the YouTube video in another tab as a soundtrack...)




She marvels, as she has an uncountable number of times in the month since arriving, at how open the sky is here in this new land she has claimed for her home. Driving from work, tired but satisfied, her thoughts turn to a familiar track: comparing the old and the new, the strange and familiar. She does so as she drives down a fine example of a difference between Indiana and Connecticut, a straight stretch of road that is longer than any straight stretch of road she can remember in the northeast.

The night is dark without being inky black, the sun only setting a half hour before. The air rushes past the car, into the open windows, through her hair, over her warm and clammy forehead. She breathes deep, enjoying the air that tastes faintly of grillsmoke, sulfar, and citronella: the scents of the many parties occuring in the backyards of the houses she passes. A jazz singer croons from the stereo, her voice low and soft and relaxing, cool water for her ears after a long day of beeping and grinding machines.


Round and round
Carousel
Has got you under its spell
Moving so fast...


It is the Fourth of July, and she is driving home to sleep as people begin their celebrations, lighting sparklers, opening beers, sharing barbecue with friends. Her friends and family are miles and miles away. The thought is bittersweet, the memory of loved ones with the knowledge that they are so far. She would not undo her situation, but she wouldn't mind stepping out of it for an hour, a moment.


Up and down
Ferris wheel
Tell me, how does it feel
To be so high...


Driving through hills, seeing nothing but trees, hearing nothing but wind. Seeing dear faces with her eyes, not with a computer screen; hearing their voices through air, not cell phones.

A stoplight ahead turns red, and she slows to a stop. Taking the opportunity, she closes her eyes, breathes deep, focuses on the cool, and the silence.

There is a loud pop, and she opens her eyes to see the sky filled with light.

Another pop, another burst, red and to the west. Another, to the east, this one green.

Soon the entire sky is filled with starbursts, sparkling rain, millions and millions of points of bright color.

The stoplight turns, and she starts forward on instinct, but her eyes and mouth are still wide open. She has hit a rare wooded spot, and she is surrounded by trees and perfect dark, color and light, the entire sky filled in every direction with fireworks.

Sneaking into her conciousness, the singer's liquid voice skims over the pops and bursts.


Is it lonely?
Lonely?
Lonely...