A Brush With Color

The paint brush flicked my cheek, as in her excitement, she flung her arm around me. The warm little body, still clad in a school uniform, seemed coiled and ready to jump for joy. Pony-tail slightly askew, wispy hairs framed her cheeks. They sometimes strayed into her eyes-those little windows trained expectantly on the patch of sky before us.
She, elevated on a chair, and I, standing on the grass in my bare feet, watched fireworks over the treetops in our back yard.
The colors looked like brief brush strokes of an artist, decorating the dark in furiously joyful jabs of blazing reds, yellows, greens, and blues.
Each splotch thrown at the great dark canvas of sky brought a gasp."Oooohhhh! Mommy, did you see that?"
I wondered why the fireworks were being displayed at such close proximity-they're usually reserved for the hallowed grounds of the bay on the 4th of July. The thought was cut short as I felt the stinging bite of an ant and realized I was standing near a small bed. She squealed at a new color explosion, but I missed it as I frantically brushed ants from my ankles and feet.
The warm October night air held us-though not as closely as it might in August or September-as we watched and listened. Like lightening and thunder, sight and sound dominated.
A final burst lit up the sky in extended moments of heat and light. I murmured that this was the end and squeezed her tightly. Smoke-pale, disappointing echoes of the blazing fireworks-hung sadly in the air for a few moments, then dissipated. Fearing a vociferous vocalization of disappointment, I was shocked to hear the contented statement, "That was cool! Let's go paint some more pictures, Mommy."