Saturday night our neighborhood was popping with fireworks. No one seemed to care that the fourth was days away, or that some of us might have wanted to sleep.
By 10:00 Jim fell asleep, but I couldn’t for all the noise. I re-opened all the windows and let the house cool down, Kindle in hand, all the lights out.
“Mom, are those fireworks?”
I looked up and there was Lily, her sisters behind. “Yes. And yes, you can watch them if you’re quiet.”
They headed to the deck and slid the screen door behind them. Over and over they ooohed and aahed at the colors and the noises all over our neighborhood, better for the waiting and expecting between bursts.
Then I heard a whisper, “Mom, there’s fireflies!” Then it was blankets to wrap up in, laid out flat together on the deck. There was constant whispering, giggling.
Then Patience came in the house, “Mom, we can see the Big Dipper from here!”
Looking up from my book, I whispered back, “That’s awesome honey.”
She slid the door shut and I heard Grace whisper, “What’d she say??”
“She said it was awesome.”
I forget how little our kids see stars or fireflies in summer, put to bed late but still daylight until nearly 10:00. Come to think of it, how little they see stars ever, since they come out so early in winter, but it’s so cold that no one could enjoy them for long.
And they stayed like that, huddled and laid out, intoxicated by the sweet, cool air, the rich smell of neighborhood fire pits, exhilarated by the thrill of staying up very, very late.
It was a savoring of everything that is delicious about sisters.