Cheers to the end of beginnings. Cheers to the manifest destiny of mediocrity at a middle class job. To a life fizzle made out of the most intrinsically subtle kindling. Fireworks are all a matter of context anyways. That’s what the children stories don’t tell you. A fire cracker in a forest is extravagant, yes, but more importantly it is out of place. Now it seems odd to encourage anyone that it is unwise to be the exploding light that would illuminate the scuttling beetles and lumbering toads, so I won’t be doing that. All I am saying is that a firework in the forest can be seen as jarring and unsettling. The lightening bug that flickers on over the pristine lake can be just as jarring, but the unsettling is absent. I’ve seen it myself.

The lakes in the Adirondacks can do that for you. Remind you that the most unexpected feelings can catch spark from the simplest of things. In these moments it’s a rarity to not laugh, expel happiness in the unlikeliest of places with unlikely company. But I encourage you to do it anyways.

I was scared of fireworks as a kid, probably because of my mother’s insistentance on Fourth of July that some hooligan teenagers might drive by and throw a firecracker out the window any minute. Hyper vigilance on the holiday sticks with me to this day. I watched the fireworks shows from behind the shield of my mother’s arms. She intended to bat away any hissing flame that might come our way. Maybe that’s why I see things differently; see the bright lights as too bright at times, blinding. A mild glow of a campfire is not exhilarating but lacking a mother’s arms to protect from the embers and you can never be quite sure if you’ll get burned. Cheers to the thrill of the comfort.