My own holiday.

The clouds were the dark grey of fresh charcoal. A fine mist filled the air and dampened every outdoor surface. People wore dark, hooded jackets and looked at their feet as they walked. The clouds’ lethargy seemed infectious.

I wanted a celebration. I felt entitled. It seemed I was the only one who felt that way, though. A few days ago I had spent a month of allowance at the fireworks stand. It seemed like such a waste. I couldn’t smell smoke on the air.

The matches were hard to light. My dad usually lit them for me. Eventually I got one going. The fuse sparked, and I ran for the porch. A few seconds and there was noise, there was color and light. I shouted a cheer. This was my own holiday now. I had made it myself.

I didn’t know what else to do but put my hand over my heart and hum the national anthem. As the light slowly faded, I gathered up the charred remains and put them in the trash can before I went back inside.

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