Boom.

I ducked instinctively —years of living in a country where gang violence often results in collateral will do that too you— as did my two friends from South Africa.

We turned around to hear a second boom, followed by the sky being lit up by hundreds of colourful twinkles. Relief was instant, though adrenaline continued to rush through my veins. A and I laughed with one another, M (our American friend and host) looked at us with a puzzled expression. We offered her no explanation. A and I continued to laugh, joking about how, "We don't play." And when you here shots you "Fucking duck and run." We were amused.

Turning my gaze toward the scene ahead, I was captivated. The cold which was continuously brushing my cheeks making them feel solid became an afterthought. The symphony of voices produced by the masses around me faded into the void. I became entranced.

I had never seen fireworks before.

I felt my writers heart flutter, my eyes observing every micro detail as my brain put together strings of sentences, working to find the correct adjectives and composition of words to describe the sight ahead of me.

They look like stars, I spoke in my mind, a sentence only meant to be heard by me. Artificial stars. Twinkling brightly for short moments, before vanishing from existence never to be seen again.

My mother's fascination with space trickled down to me. I became fascinated with stars alone. I thought of how much I would love to share this experience with her, watching faux stars make me flinch before lighting up the darkness with beauty you'd think only nature could conjure. I thought to tell her about it later.

She would say "oh how beautiful. I'm happy for you my angel. I hope you had fun." I would reply with a smiling emoji, teeth and all, and speak to her about my experience. I'd start with how my friends and I were initially scared and had a good laugh about it. She'd call me a silly child, and wish me a good night, say "sleep well." In all the events that occurred after we returned to the house, I forgot to message her. Waking up the next day, the desire to share had lost its appeal.

I don't know how long I stood there for; still as a statue, eyes glued to the ever-fading artwork. I could have stayed standing until it was over and then some, my mind continuing to conjure up images of those gunpowder fireflies.

I was pulled away by the sound of M, "can we go take pictures now? I'm cold, I want to go home."

It was then that I was reminded of my freezing face, reminded of the people and sounds around me. It all came back in a crash, and still my eyes remained on the display, the writer in me not ready to acknowledge the world yet.

I dragged my feet, walking backwards towards the newly lit Christmas tree, not wanting to miss a moment, I almost bumped into someone.

With a peace filled yet sombre expression on my face, I turned around, following M's family, not daring a glance over my shoulder.