the tension by asking me to go on a ride with him. When I asked where we were going, he said, “Young lady, you need to blow some shit up.”
Fireworks were sold year round in Missouri and I had grown up playing with these miniature explosives like some children grow up playing with dolls. On my summer visits to Grandma’s we always stopped at a firework stand where we loaded up with sparklers, bottle rockets, poppers and colorful packages that promised to spit and shoot brilliant sparks of light. We would take them out to Aunt Diana and Uncle Marty’s house and spend an entire night sitting on blankets in front of their burn pile, eating junk food and catching up while we took turns lighting off fireworks.
I was happy to go with Mike, to get away from awkwardness of my family. Mike didn’t talk around what was going on in the car ride but he didn’t talk about it, either. It was the first time I felt like I could breathe since seeing our family. I hadn’t expected for things to be worse in Missouri – naively, I had thought they would be better.
I started to fear myself then, the unfamiliarity of my mind inside my own skin. When your parent dies you have to remember to grab on to what you knew. What once was. I hadn’t held on tightly enough, and with every unexpected feeling I was forgetting how things had been before. Before was as place in time that I wanted to return to. I would spend many years trying to fit myself into ‘before’.
The fireworks tent was packed with families buying last minute toys for their Fourth of July celebrations. Even with all that was going on I still got a kick out the little kids running around in their overalls, most without shoes, reaching into cardboard boxes to pick out their favorites. Children as young as four were holding onto lighters and matches, excited to help their older brothers and sisters ignite the tiny fuse at the end of the flammable plaything that was the social norm in Wentzville.
Mike grabbed two crates, set up at the front flap of the tent for the serious pyros, and handed me one. “Fill it up,” he said. I didn’t have any money but I was sure Mike knew that. I watched as he reached for the big explosives on the top shelves, some costing $20 a piece. He’d grabbed several handfuls when he noticed that my crate was still empty. “We aren’t leaving here, Sarah, until we’ve got enough to blow up everything that sucks right now. Fill it up.”
I was the envy of every child in that tent. They watched as we loaded up our crates with a sampling from every table, never once checking price tags. Those barefoot kids probably wished they could trade places with me. It’s funny, isn’t it, how we don’t see beyond the surface of peoples’ lives. How we never even try.
We stopped only when we couldn’t carry anymore. A toothless man and his very fat wife finished ringing us up and handed Mike a receipt. “That’ll be $192.48.”
I was certain that we would put some of the fireworks back. Without hesitating Mike pulled out his wallet handed the cashier a stack of twenties. “Keep the change, sir,” he said. Together we carried our crates back to his truck.
Angela was not pleased when she saw that receipt, and under normal circumstances she would have probably chewed his ass out for spending so much money on fireworks. But nothing was ordinary since your plane crash. I think she knew how much the gesture meant to me.
We had our bonfire that evening. I ran back and forth from fuse to fuse, blowing up as much of my fear and anger as I could. For the briefest of moments there was color in the darkness. All I had to do to get the colors back was light another fuse. I threw bottle rockets carelessly into the flames, sending them shooting out in every direction in unpredictable angles. Our family sat silently around the fire, doing their best not to get burned in the wake of my destruction.
Several years later, Stephanie called me as I was on my
Fireworks were sold year round in Missouri and I had grown up playing with these miniature explosives like some children grow up playing with dolls. On my summer visits to Grandma’s we always stopped at a firework stand where we loaded up with sparklers, bottle rockets, poppers and colorful packages that promised to spit and shoot brilliant sparks of light. We would take them out to Aunt Diana and Uncle Marty’s house and spend an entire night sitting on blankets in front of their burn pile, eating junk food and catching up while we took turns lighting off fireworks.
I was happy to go with Mike, to get away from awkwardness of my family. Mike didn’t talk around what was going on in the car ride but he didn’t talk about it, either. It was the first time I felt like I could breathe since seeing our family. I hadn’t expected for things to be worse in Missouri – naively, I had thought they would be better.
I started to fear myself then, the unfamiliarity of my mind inside my own skin. When your parent dies you have to remember to grab on to what you knew. What once was. I hadn’t held on tightly enough, and with every unexpected feeling I was forgetting how things had been before. Before was as place in time that I wanted to return to. I would spend many years trying to fit myself into ‘before’.
The fireworks tent was packed with families buying last minute toys for their Fourth of July celebrations. Even with all that was going on I still got a kick out the little kids running around in their overalls, most without shoes, reaching into cardboard boxes to pick out their favorites. Children as young as four were holding onto lighters and matches, excited to help their older brothers and sisters ignite the tiny fuse at the end of the flammable plaything that was the social norm in Wentzville.
Mike grabbed two crates, set up at the front flap of the tent for the serious pyros, and handed me one. “Fill it up,” he said. I didn’t have any money but I was sure Mike knew that. I watched as he reached for the big explosives on the top shelves, some costing $20 a piece. He’d grabbed several handfuls when he noticed that my crate was still empty. “We aren’t leaving here, Sarah, until we’ve got enough to blow up everything that sucks right now. Fill it up.”
I was the envy of every child in that tent. They watched as we loaded up our crates with a sampling from every table, never once checking price tags. Those barefoot kids probably wished they could trade places with me. It’s funny, isn’t it, how we don’t see beyond the surface of peoples’ lives. How we never even try.
We stopped only when we couldn’t carry anymore. A toothless man and his very fat wife finished ringing us up and handed Mike a receipt. “That’ll be $192.48.”
I was certain that we would put some of the fireworks back. Without hesitating Mike pulled out his wallet handed the cashier a stack of twenties. “Keep the change, sir,” he said. Together we carried our crates back to his truck.
Angela was not pleased when she saw that receipt, and under normal circumstances she would have probably chewed his ass out for spending so much money on fireworks. But nothing was ordinary since your plane crash. I think she knew how much the gesture meant to me.
We had our bonfire that evening. I ran back and forth from fuse to fuse, blowing up as much of my fear and anger as I could. For the briefest of moments there was color in the darkness. All I had to do to get the colors back was light another fuse. I threw bottle rockets carelessly into the flames, sending them shooting out in every direction in unpredictable angles. Our family sat silently around the fire, doing their best not to get burned in the wake of my destruction.
Several years later, Stephanie called me as I was on my
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