Standing in the dark, in the cold, on the edge of the gravel playing field again. Hallowe’en evening, 8:00. Silhouetted figures clustered in small clumps around us, small family groupings.

Waiting.

The taller figures standing guard, flashlight beams illuminating smaller figures at their feet, intently rummaging in plastic bags, in moulded orange plastic pumpkins. Elbow deep, assessing this year’s take of treats. Diminutive fur-costumed bears; covens of young witches; Professors Dumbledore in miniature.

And then when it begins there is a collective intake of breath, almost a sigh: “Ahhhhh!” As the crump of ignited powder sends the first spark-spinning projectile towards the stars. Heads tilt backwards in anticipation until, at the apogee, at the utter peak, the sparks explode into a huge, concussive blast that sets ears ringing. And the colours cascade out in spark-heavy streamers: white-yellow, impossibly bright spark-sleeves that slide their arms down towards the upturned faces, and then wink out into a faint film of ash that drifts, drifts softly down upon us.

“Colour. Guess a colour” as the next one races upwards.

“Yellow! No, green!”

And green it is, of course. And green again. And yellow. And red, purple, red again, and yellow, bright-blazing yellow. Sparkling, everything sparkling. And there are sizzling sounds, and things spin and whir, and there are fountains of yellow streamers streaking upwards, and fiery chrysanthemums that fill the dome of the night, fill the whole field of vision. Until your head can hold no more.

One firework after the other, each one seeming more than all that had gone before. Higher; louder; more colours; brighter; more dazzling; more beautiful. Yes: each one more beautiful than all the others.

And over all of us a scent of fall, of smoky childhood, of half-remembered pleasures. The parking lot growing fainter behind a haze of smoke, the trees smudged outlines, as our silhouettes slowly merge until we are all one in this. Until we are all one.

Heading homeward in the afterdark, a small figure held upon a pair of shoulders. His eyes ignited in amazement and his brain ablaze with sparks.

“That was the best one ever, Dad! That was the best one ever!”

And it was, of course. It always is.