I Have A Thing About Fireworks

By Erin Deborah Waks

I have a thing about fireworks. I can remember, down to the second, where it came from.

It was the 5th of November, about six years ago. My best friend and I, on a whim, decided to drive to St Albans, a beautiful market town not far from us, to watch a fireworks display above the lake in the park. And while I’ve always enjoyed fireworks - and associate them with the kind of joyous yet chaotic school field displays coupled with bad hot chocolate and poor quality hotdogs that most parents detest and most happy children revel in - this was the moment that changed.

We watched this fireworks display with something akin to an almost religious awe. All I can say is that I felt truly alive. Something in the combination of beauty, power and the sense of community behind the event brought out a spiritual, hopeful, meaningful side to me I’ve only caught a glimpse of on a handful of occasions.

Then life got in the way, as it often does. Fireworks are not the most common occurrence, and somewhere between moving cities and constant plans just meant I hardly saw any for years - or, rather, I made no active plans to watch as many as I could.

When I realised Bonfire night was fast approaching this year, it coincided with a major upheaval in my life. I recognised my growing need for meaning, for doing things that make me feel alive, and not like a cog in a machine, eating, sleeping, working and breathing. 

And so, armed with my warmest coat and a pair of tickets, I dragged myself and an unsuspecting pal all the way west and even further south to the land of Wimbledon for an annual display. We played like pure children - taking a ride on the bumper cars, stuffing our face with donuts smothered in nutella and soaking up the very wholesome, very British atmosphere. 

We got the tube home, my boots covered in mud and lips dotted with stray sugar droplets. I felt like an innocent, slightly naughty, undoubtedly happy and unequivocally in-awe child again.