On Labor Day Fireworks

I grew up on a mostly closed down farm in southern Pennsylvania. For me, Labor Day as a kid with the few businesses in town being closed down meant more nothing following a lifetime of repetitive nothing. It would be yet another long weekend spent cooking out with my parents, making up games with my cousins and visiting with relatives, who would ask dreaded questions about my poor math grades. Sometimes a childhood friend would get some contraband fireworks, but it was never enough, mostly I just had sparklers. That was my childhood, a sparkler when I wanted fireworks.

As a teenager and young woman, I wanted to get out and like many small town girls thought a relationship rather than college was the solution. Somehow, after plenty of heartbreaks, I was lucky enough to not get nailed down before I got wise and went to Le Moyne College, where I would study English and as little math as possible with a half scholarship and student loans to pay the rest. In those days. Labor Day Weekend meant extra time to write a paper or earn more tips at the restaurant where I worked my way through school. I guess when the past is too close you can’t think about it clearly. Except one summer I took off for a Washington D.C. road trip and Washington Park, where they had fireworks so close and big and bright I thought the ashes might fall down and set the blanket on fire, but I had already moved on to the next place, Arizona, big sky country.

I finished my degree at the University of Arizona, where my husband to be, but then boyfriend and I watched little ridiculous puffs of color from the top of a parking garage in town. “That’s it. They can’t put them up very high because of the fire hazard.” Why did I even bother walking over here, I thought. I’m tired and I have work to do, but I wanted fireworks again when I couldn’t see them and only when I couldn’t see them. Those were my late twenties, hungry.

This year, I try to age gracefully through my thirties and I have thus far managed to not dye my steadily graying hair or think I could pull off a miniskirt. I ride my bike every morning because my doctor tells me staying in shape is important. Every morning I climb on and think who am I kidding. I am getting old, but I will tell you with the gray hair, wide hips and reading glasses old age also brought me a gift. It is the gift of seeing the end and believing in its existence. This year I am going to see the fireworks. I won’t be looking at the past or the future. I will be looking at the fireworks and seeing them.