Fireworks=Lost Children


He suprised me; I didn’t think that he could sleep through fireworks. Snuggled in my lap, my son’s head hadn’t moved since the beginning of the show, his eyes facing the direction of the exploding gunpowder of colors.
I layed him down on our blanket just in case he woke up and still wanted to see the fireworks. I had confidence that he would be fine; before we came I told him that if he got lost to ask a fireman for help. After stroking his sunflower blonde hair once more, I turned to join my friends about 20 blankets away at our own miniature bar.

Blink. Blink.
Yawn. Sit up.
Lights are too bright. Close eyes.
Booms are scary. Hands over ears.
“Mommy, where are you; Mommy!”
Run; eyes closed. Lights are getting brighter.
Peek through eyes; men are lined up on the grass with things in front of them.
They know where Mommy is.
“Where’s Mommy?”
“What? Kid, you gotta get out of here!”
Lifted; man is running away [to Mommy] with me in arms.


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