Fireworks Nights: Summer in a Japanese Park

 

It has that sort of silence that falls on a Japanese park just before the fireworks start, that between when everybody has got their place settled, the air is red with grilled corn and yakitori, and even the cicadas appear to have stopped. It is summer in Japan and fireworks festivals - hanabi taikai - take place to their full extent.

 I can still recall my first one, in Osaka. I had trailed a group of friends, cartons of picnic mats and bento boxes going to the river.

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 The sun was fading away in the horizon and the sky was turning peach and lavender. Families, and couples and parties of teenagers were making themselves comfortable all around us, talking in low tones, and waving paper fans. The entire city seemed to be beating in unison.

Everything came to a standstill when the initial firework broke the door to the sky. There was only light, gold flushing to pink, silver and rain-like.

 The audience would clap in a concerted effort, and then softly again before they would become quiet with the next explosion.

 

It was something touching to the heart of the world, the sight of thousands of people, all together, with the same sky above them, and all wondering with all their hearts at the loveliness that would have disappeared in a few seconds.

 

The children were laughing, couples were kissing, and strangers were taking snacks around me. Vendors went through the crowd selling cold beverages and shaved ice. It was noisy, disordered, untidy-but-it was all joy.

 

That warm night air made me understand why the Japanese word hanabi means flower of fire. Every explosion was a short-lived flower, radiant and tender, something to remember the beauty of impermanence.

 

As the final firework came to an end, there was no army of people in a hurry to depart. Individuals were loitering, as though they did not want the night to pass. I was lying on the grass and heard the chatter of the distal babble and the gentle murmur of summer.