I love fireworks. I love the fact that a firework display is a work of modern art painted using tinted light splashed unto the vast universe, framed by trees and embellished by stars. I love the fleetingness of that one perfect moment when the scene explodes with color. I love soaking up those precious seconds right after when twinkling specks of what must be pixie dust imbue the night air with a touch of magic.
This year I got to witness another side of the firework experience.
A couple of friends had asked me if I was interested in a fireworks show that they help set-off every year. Loving fireworks, I said yes to joining to watch the display. In my enthusiasm, I somehow missed the part where I was agreeing to being part of the crew.
Thankfully I was only put in charge of  starting and stopping the music. But the limited range of the boom box Bluetooth connection meant I still needed to position myself quite close to the field of action.
As the first few rockets lit up, I recall musing to myself what a great the vintage I had.
As quickly as that thought crossed sprung up, it was muted by the cacophony that ensued.
Streaks of light whizzing in unexpected directions and what seemed an unorchestrated chaos.
As the two friends stood there coolly debating which fuses to light up next, two others engulfed themselves in balls of flame.
It suddenly hit me the origin of fireworks and its derivation from gunpowder. Because yes, the scene before me could only be described as a war zone.
And it brought to mind just how thin the line is between a memorizinglu beautiful scene constructed for hope and celebration versus a battleground scarred by hatred and brutality.
Such is the duality of our existence.
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