I am feeling like a pupa, all wrapped up in blankets inside a sleeping bag, a thick furry hat and all to watch the fireworks. At ninety, my granddaughter Lucy is taking no chances with me. It’s years since I last saw a display, but feeling the raw air around me fills me with joy. Living in a home after my husband passed away, means I never get out in the chilly weather,
I’m sitting above the playing fields in a lay-by and the fun is about to start.
My word what a show – loads of flash-bangs, crackling, starbursts, so different from anything I’ve seen before. Lucy tells me they are not called fireworks now but pyrotechnics, whatever they are.
As the smoke rises, pulling a veil over the events, still the occasional firework is going off around the town. Turning to Lucy, I explain that as children we would come up here for a picnic with our jam sandwiches and bottles of water. In winter we had our biscuit tin lids to slide down in the snow. Her granddad and I did our courting up here as well, away from prying eyes!
Gazing around, I notice the sky on the horizon slowly changes colour to a faint purple. Holding my breath, I see it undulate, rising up, followed by spring green. The colours dance across the heavens to their own special tune. I can’t believe that what I’m seeing is the Northern Lights. We look at each other, both of us with tears in our eyes.
“Lucy, that’s your granddad letting us know he is watching over us. If I died tomorrow, I would die happy. What a night!”
I undo the sleeping bag and we fall into each other’s arms.
