Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

The crowd gathered slowly, tarpaulins staking out their claims with paper taped to grass, lazy dogs refusing to let them pass. The sun was bright when they started to arrive: infants filled with lightness of day while adults settled back to watch the sky. Sounds rose up as sun went down till all around was muffled talking, shrieking, shouting, still, and music played. Colors bled from day and all the waving grass turned gray. And then, as infants began to wail, expectancy dissolving to despair, roars split the air. Twilight was done. Night-time had come. The fireworks display was begun.

Mother tells him put it down. “Can do it self,” says child. Father shouts, but “I’m okay.” Child smiles. Big brother says drop it, but “I’m just as clever as you.” Big sister… “You can’t tell me what to do.” Little boy runs with firework in hand. At least it isn’t lit, and he can’t light it. Mother says, “Come back right now.” And pride comes before a fall. At least the fall’s a few safe inches from the fire. Then rocket flies from little boy’s hand and explosions reach for the sky. At least he’s alive, and he’s okay.

I remember November, remember remembering “gunpowder, treason and plot,” shooting our fireworks high in the autumn sky, into clouds, into night. There’s smoke of fire and cold of wind, the crackle of flame and the cackle of children all crying their joy the game. And there’s the “Guy.” But in summer when evenings are long and the sky stays light way into the night, that’s when American’s light their fire, remembering victorious rebellion while we, in November, remember rebellion that failed to ignite. We remember and we keep faith with the guy till the day we might need him again.