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fireworks of every kind

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

We went to see the fireworks at the beaches tonight. It was a good show, though I now recall how short fireworks displays are in Canada. The Boy and I wore our "jinbei", the lightweight Japanese-style pants-and-wrapped-shirt sets that are common fare in the summer and especially for fireworks. The Girl wore a yukata. (Mari wore a dress.)

We had a good time except for something that happened right off the start. As I was clearing a spot to lie down our towel, I heard a girl start to cry from the water's edge. Turning at the sudden sound of it, I saw The Boy with a miserable look on his face. The girl was running to her Dad, holding a hand on her head. The Boy had been babbling about throwing stones into the lake.

I asked him, "Did something happen?" With a terror-stricken frown, he nodded curtly once. I went to the girl and asked the father, "Did my son hit your daughter with a stone?" The Boy had run to me and was shamefully burying his face in my leg, clinging to me.

He confirmed it, but upon checking that her scalp wasn't bleeding, told me, "It's okay, it's just kids."

Mari and I had other words for poor The Boy, though.