They All Looked Up

Follow our character as he reacts to fireworks through the years: in wonder, annoyance, exhaustion, nostalgia. One thing does not change though. Every single version of him looks up.

Image via Pinterest

At five, he craned his head. Bent it almost ninety degrees backwards to take it all in. It was so loud, and so bright, and so colourful, and so new to him. He had seen fireworks before, but that time when he was five, that was the earliest time he could recall. That would become a core memory. He was sitting on his dad’s shoulders; in his mind, he was perched like a bird in a manger. His open palms faced upwards. He stretched out his hand as he tried to grab the falling sparks. Fairy dust or extinguished explosive powder? The whole sky had changed, and even after the sparks disappeared, the smoke screen in the sky left it blurry. It felt like the death of the world. It was beautiful, the end of the world.

At fifteen, arms crossed, he tried to look big. Bigger than he was, anyway. He puffed out his chest and stood straight, but he could not hide his teenage lankiness. It emphasized his almost-manliness, which was itself brought about by his budding adulthood. Not a boy anymore, but not quite a man yet. He had seen fireworks so many times before, what was there to be awestruck by anymore? Before he could stop himself, lyrics came to his mind: “Do you ever feel like a plastic bag” and they stayed in his head, on loop. That one line was an earworm. It was in his head with all the other pop culture references that competed for his attention. They were always somewhere in his mind, in the background. At that age, he was properly immersed in meme culture. It was so unfunny that he found it hilarious. Ridiculously hilarious. He started chuckling to himself. The rest of the family looked at him like he was crazy. Maybe he was.

At twenty-five, he was at his college friend’s rooftop party. His friend rented a condo in one of those buildings with an uncountable number of floors. The ones where the elevator rides are uncomfortably long. That building was one of the tallest in the city, and yet the fireworks went higher. Higher and higher still. Rainbow sparks falling onto the city, colouring in its dull urban grey buildings. As he lifted his head, he thought about the only other time where such loud sounds come from the sky: thunderstorms. With thunderstorms, the lightning was a clear precursor. Lightning warned you about the sound. You could prepare yourself for thunder during those few seconds of waiting in anxious anticipation. You could count those seconds and calculate the distance of the lightning strike. Fireworks were different. No such delay. Just explosion upon explosion, relentless. Sometimes fireworks felt more violent than thunderstorms. 

At thirty-five, he was a dog owner and scorned the festivities. The fireworks always startled the pets. Their barks overtook the booms going on outside, grating his ear from the inside out. Aggressive barks followed by whimpers of confusion repeating endlessly. More often than not, fireworks made the dogs piss on the carpet. Even after the show was over, the dogs would carry on with their barking. They were so scared that they convinced themselves the threat was still there. They barked and ran into their frenzy, deep into the night. He was annoyed but tried to understand them. He imagined what fireworks would feel like if their sound lodged itself into his eardrums. Wouldn’t he go crazy too? He grabbed his dogs, held onto them and soothed them until the shivering stopped. Till their steady breathing replaced the ruckus.

At forty-five, he was tired. His little girl had been running around all day, but there she was, fighting the sleepiness. Her little hands rubbed her eyes in defiance. Eye bags were already visible. Despite her exhaustion, she kept repeating the word he had learnt to despise, that little word that got him grunting internally every single time. She would ask and repeat every time he gave an answer, “Why?” Why do we do that? To celebrate. Why is it in the sky? So everyone can see. Why is it so loud? So it’s more fun. But why? Because a celebration has to be huge. But why? Because everyone is glad. But why? Because I said so. She took it as her cue to stop. Eye bags were starting to form under his eyes too. Her plump little hand took his and squeezed it with all the mighty strength of a five-year-old. He squeezed it back, three times for good measure.

At eighty-five, the booms were not as loud. His ears felt constantly blocked, and he hated wearing his hearing aids. The sight was nothing new. It was blurry at first: his glasses were as thick as his grandson’s little finger. With his outstretched palm, he swore he could touch the sparks. Sparkles, like the tacky decorative glitter at the parties his daughter hosted. For a split second, he could see it all clearly, as clearly as that first time, eighty years before. It was like being born again, like the birth of the world. And it was beautiful, the start of the world.