Dreams
On July Fourth, after my birthday celebration at home, Matt and I head to the river for the fireworks.
Mom and Dad are going to a barbecue, finally getting into the habit of enjoying their freedom.
Matt and I don’t talk much on the walk downtown. He’s one of those people who are as comfortable being quiet as bursting into conversation.
Obaachan was like that. We could talk for hours, or sit together quietly. But then there are so many ways to communicate.
The weather is perfect. The day’s hot spell brings on pleasant, balmy nights. The air feels exotic. The red highlights from the sunset are gone; there is only blue and gray, sea light, sea colors, darkening and darkening, as if the world itself is sinking into the river.
We set our lawn chairs next to a family’s at the railing. A boy with a strawberry ice-cream cone sticks his tongue out at us.
“Nice,” Matt jokes. “Do you want an ice cream? I could steal his. He deserves it.”
“No, thank you.” I laugh. “Do you?”
“Kind of. Be right back.”
Matt brings back a strawberry cone. “Share this with me.” We lick from either side, trying to keep the melting pink from our clothes. “I don’t even like strawberry. It was just the power of suggestion.”
“On his tongue?”
“Yeah.” We look over at the kid, who is now facedown on the ground, playing with plastic soldiers. “Are you comfortable? Will you be able to see?”
“Yes,” I say, remembering my mother’s happiness when she met my dad, who “cared” about her feelings. Matt is like that, always asking what I want or how I feel.
“In all these years, we never watched the fireworks from here,” I confess. “We always just watched from our yard. My family are homebodies.”
“So’s mine. Except for annual trips to Italy.” He checks his watch. “It’s almost time. July Fourth seems like the new year. For you, it really is the new year.”
“How did you know that?”
“I have my ways. Nathan told me.” He puts his arm around me and tugs me in close.
Sometimes I feel like I am watching a movie of my own life. It is foreign to be so active: serving coffee at the café, walking the halls of the hospital, presenting oral reports in my class, playing in the orchestra, being on a date. Then I have to pinch myself and remember not to just watch, but to be in it.
Matt pulls out a small box with a pink ribbon. “On that note . . .”
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t? Darn.”
I open the box. On a bed of cotton sleeps a small bracelet with pink beads and little shells. “It’s so pretty.”
“Like you.” He puts it on my wrist. “I can barely see it. It’s gotten so dark.”
I have thought about you for years, I want to tell him, but I don’t. I remember Obaachan’s question, Is he special? He is.
There’s no announcement, but a hush comes over everyone. Then a crack and a boom. A rocket of light shoots into the sky, splinters into fragments, green and red sparks radiating from the center, then showering down on the water.
A dog barks. People applaud. The ice-cream boy hides his face. Then another boom and white sparks: lotus seeds, tea leaves, hair changing color overnight. Green sparks: Irish fields, my dad’s eyes. Gold sparks: my cello, Ms. Nga’s violin, Obaachan’s koans, my mother’s brownies. Red sparks: another senseless war. Silver: my mother’s hands, Matt’s grin, passionate heart, strong voice.
The finale comes. I am a girl with vision. It was given to me by my grandmother. The crowd cheers. Hansed to me in a seed, a pod that felt as big as my five-year-old hand. Matt tugs me in close as one explosion after another bursts open, lighting the upturned faces on the shore, raining over the water, like everyone having the same dream of night and falling stars.