We arrived just in time to perch on the big rocks lining the beach and watch the faraway fireworks explode. As we watched, the three of us sat together reminiscing over 4th of July's past. The fireworks, twinkling against the dark sky and dark water seemed impossibly small to me like trivial little jewels sparkling in the distance. The sharp cracking noises reached our ears after the fireworks had long since exploded-- making me realize just how faraway they were.
I recognized familiar patterns-- they shot off my favorite, gorgeous, trickling, shimmering sparkles. We Ooohhed and Ahhhed for old time's sake.
As we walked back home, we discussed the magic we had witnessed.
Plopping onto the couch at Blackstone, I tried to describe the fireworks we had just witnessed.
"Even better," I continued. "They are two times a week!" I was still basking in a post-firework glow.
"Yeah, I saw them, too," he said glumly. "Do you know how much each firework costs? think how many of the social services cut that that could pay for..."
"Thanks, Phil," I said. With one statement, he had extinguished all of that joy. I limped away, back to thinking about everything that is wrong with this city-- and the horrible budget cuts that would soon slam into all of our organizations.
The next day, Philipp followed up on the previous conversation.
"I talked to the guy at work," he said. Philipp works with homeless veterans in the Southside in a program called Featherfist. We respect everyone there immensely. "He actually said that he thinks its a good thing because it gives people something to do with their families that is not drug related. It is free. It gets them out of their hoods."
From the soggy, tear-stained ashes of the fireworks inside of me, I felt a small, but resilient warmth-turned-flame begin to glow.
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