Fourth of July used to frighten me when I was a kid. Then, after years and years of going to see the fireworks displays with my own children, I got really sick and tired of it. It was the same silly old celebration, the same display of patriotism and the same, if not worse, deafening noise. Even though it scared me when I was little, at least the anticipation and the gorgeous explosions of color and light were thrilling. I haven’t experienced that thrill in a very long time, until last night.
Where I live I can either walk a few steps to the sand and watch the fireworks on the beach or I can watch right from my front patio. So that is what we did. We had a nice bottle of wine and enjoyed the show the way grownups would. There was no need to be up front and center and no need to mingle with hundreds of spectators. For the first time ever, this 4th of July, was intimate. It seemed as if the magnificent bombs bursting in air were doing it just for us. It truly was a celebration. Perhaps even a declaration.
I’ll be the first one to admit it. I am overtly romantic. I am generally pretty shy and introverted, at least on the inside anyway, but when given an opportunity to express love, I fall for it every time. It takes me a while to test the waters, but once I feel that it is safe to go in, I dive head first. I simply can’t live without it. My heart aches without it. Even though I am not really sure what love is anymore or what it is supposed to feel like, I think last night was pretty close to the real thing. There was a fire in the sky last night.
If it’s my Dad watching over me and sending me this, I will know it is okay to swim farther out. But for now, I am waiting for his cue.