I wrote this last summer on the way home from work late one night. Behind Christmas, the 4th of July is my favorite holiday. Not because I love America any more than I love any other country but because of the fireworks. Because of the people watching those fireworks. Awestruck men and women and children staring up at the blast and crackle. I watch the faces as much as the sky.
A star burst in the distance, some pyrotechnic charge for a long forgotten holiday exploded in the sky. I rolled down my window, hoping to hear the pop and crackle of the distant firework display. The radio was turned up as high as it would go and sounds of summer flowed through the speakers and over me. I was awash with something I hadn’t felt in years. Excitement. Exstacy. Envelopment.
My voice grew hoarse with lyrics of a summer long gone, with baseless feelings. For five minutes, as fireworks broke over that lonely stretch of highway, I was in love again. I was back there, that night, those stars, her voice. My hand beat against the steering wheel, my foot stomped on the floor of the car. Passion rolled through me.
Let’s blow something up.
