Fireworks

My Dear Princess,

When I was a little kid, my dad would sometimes put me and Teresa to bed. 

Mum would typically read us a story. But dad had another trick up his sleeve. "Fireworks! Fireworks!" we would demand and dad would sigh. 

"Just for a minute and then STRAIGHT TO SLEEP," he would say. 

"Yes! Yes! We promise!" we would lie.

And then dad would take his cigarette from his lips with a grin and WHISK it around in the air. He would do spirals and loops and ups and downs, leaving an orange trail in the air as his ciggie glowed bright. 

I liked the loops best. 

"Ooooh! Aaaaaah!!" dad would say, getting into the spirit of it. 

And then it would be over. 

"Again! Again!" we would demand. 

(I told you we were lying.)

And sometimes he would indeed do it "again again" until we were satisfied. I think he enjoyed our enjoyment. He liked to hear us oooh and aaaah and giggle. But in the end it would be over. Dad would disappear off downstairs with the stub of his burned-out ciggie in his hand and I'd lie there, with the bright light-trails still looping in my mind. 

I asked him about this many years later. "I burned through so many bloody ciggies that way," he complained. But I knew he loved it really.

Today at the respite home, the nurse told me she could tell just by looking at my dad that he had a bit of mischief in him, a bit of a twinkle. He can't talk much - that was always his main flirting weapon. But he still has his twinkle. 

"He's such a lovely fellow," said the nurse. "And I can tell just by looking at those eyes that he was full of life. And I think it's just not fair."

She's right. It's not fair. The whoosh and sparkle of his fireworks is diminishing in front of us. He's heading off downstairs with his ciggie-stub, laughing to himself on his way out. 

The light-trails will always remain though. They burn bright in my memory and always will.

S.