I went to see the fireworks the other night for the first time in years. They were wonderful–another milestone in the journey to find life outside of Bill.

Each year, we entered the same conversation. I wanted to go see the “real” light show, while he made his way to the stands along the side of the road, the ones offering an amateur performance for a pretty penny. He loved to have his own holiday display. So proud.

Some years would be highly successful, others duds. One year he shot one, and instead of going up, it went sideways and hit a neighbor in the leg. Luckily, no injuries, or lawsuits.

Each time though, he would say something like, “Next year we will go and see the real ones.”

We never did.

And that was okay. It was our little game we played. I loved to watch the sparkle in his eyes as he spent hours lining up his evening–looking over his goods, inevitably going out for more. Each year trying to outdo the others.

Maybe that is why the day of independence hardly feels free.

He’s not here for us to ooh and ahh over his light show.

The light has left.

And has left me in the dark ever since. The first year, I fled to another city. Last year, I think I watched others outside, from a decent distance on the front porch.

The other day, I cried tears of hopelessness for a couple minutes.

Then made dinner. Played some vinyl. Cards. Smiles.

Ky and I drove down the road at dusk, pulled off to the side, and watched the “real” fireworks.

Beautiful.

I didn’t ooh and ahh as much as before, but the spark was still alive.

The light inside even glowed a bit–that kind of glow brought on by happiness.

…

I see this photo, an exuberant day in the midst of hard ones all around us. In that moment, we celebrated the day for what it was.

There are small pockets of light all around when we focus on the beauty of what is right in front of us.