My youngest daughter perched herself on the edge of a rock bridge in an old field and dared me with her eyes to say no. A trickle of a creek, muddy yet sparkling, ran under that tiny bridge and further down other children waded and ran shrieking up the bank.
The evening was summer dusk, warm and humid, but soft and inviting all the same. Across the field, as if someone had sent a sudden signal, vehicles began to appear with bulk hidden under tarps and strapped to trailers. Moments later, bright yards of fabric began to unfurl and billow in the slight breeze. The people pressed closer to watch the spectacle unfurl.
And on a warm summer evening, they used fire to float those balloons.
What was once flat and wrapped tight swelled and soared and colored the sky all around.
She begged for a ride, and when we climbed into that basket and lifted high, all I could think was how it’s the fire that’s made us fly.