045/100 aka 185/365

FOR HONOR AND GLORY
Word Count: 477

Budget cuts had the town divided on holding the Independence Day Parade and Grand Fireworks Display. The old timers fought for tradition. They and the excited young people won out. Carmel Withers was voted Queen and while the parade was cut down in size, the fireworks would go on as usual. It was our first year here and we’d heard so much about it. My wife and I took our six year-old son and eagerly claimed a close-up spot right on the front edge of the barrier for the nine p.m. show.

It was barely dark when it started. Fountains of all colors of lights slipped low, then higher and higher, breaking open right over our heads. The air around us never stopped reverberating the sound. My son clapped in delight. The bright flashes and beautiful starbursts were the best I’d ever seen and my wife nodded her agreement. There was a brief lull, the sparks still whirling about overhead, when a stage in the middle of the display was lit up and we could see the Queen standing alone in the center. A young, local girl, seventeen, I’d heard. A girl who grew up dreaming of this day. Then the spotlights dimmed and the real show began.

Carmel lit up like a Christmas tree but that wasn’t all. From her fingers shot sparklers dripping as she waved to the crowd. Her hair exploded over and over into red, white, and blue stars and orange spaghetti. Her teeth lit up in a “Happy July 4th!” message, and for the grand finale, her whole body exploded into a glorious mix of colors and flashing fireworks, the pinwheels, the fishies, the double and triple streamers. All the while, the booms and cracks and whistlers and shrieks nearly deafening in themselves, were matched by the gasps and applause of the crowd.

When the last pinwheels sizzled, the last fishies swam into the black ocean of sky, the last spaghetti strand sucked into the night, the crowd slowly broke up and wandered away. I turned to my wife; she, as dumbstruck as me. We both looked at our son, who didn’t seem to realize exactly what happened.

Mrs. Withers was still wiping away tears of joy. Smiling at those who came up to congratulate her. I, still not quite believing what I had just seen, found myself going in her direction, my wife quietly walking behind me, calmly talking to my son.

“Your daughter,” I said, “I’m so sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Oh no!” said the woman. She put a hand on my arm, her face beaming in the paltry light of the moon. “We’re thrilled,” she said. “It’s what Carmel always dreamed of,” she said.

“But she’s dead,” I said. I felt my wife’s elbow dig into my side and she pulled me away.