Firework Hills
How much do I love fireworks? So much. So much that my love spills over and extends to everything within a two-mile radius of the fireworks. I love you, weedy vacant lot. I love you, lawn chairs and smell of DEET. I love you, traffic jam. I want to hug a whole summer night.
The little hill behind my apartment used to be part of a golf course and is now overgrown and grassy. I climbed it in the twilight, swish-swishing through half-seen grasses. You could smell bug spray and gunpowder before you went over the ridge; a handful of people settling into watch. Lawn chairs and roman candles and bursts of classic-rock static from a portable radio.
The proper fireworks, about a mile away, turned out to be at a bad angle. Amazing, anyway. And there were more fireflies on that little weedy hillside than anywhere, flashing their paparazzi butts beneath the gunpowder horizon and the stars. Twinkle, twinkle, explode.
How much? SO MUCH.