Fireworks: Reigning Champs

There’s a special kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from staying up late.
It comes from being awake when your tough dogs are scared.
Last night was one of those fantastic nights.

Fireworks.

Then more fireworks.
Then the different kind of sounds that make you pause and ask yourself…
was that…
... gunfire?
…and then convince yourself it was "firecracker" fireworks.

Where I used to live, this was any normal day. Holidays were special though, everyone brings out their best and shiniest: and, it sounded like a war zone if you didn’t know better. Sirens. Helicopters. Sharp cracks that echo longer than they should. You learn to tell the difference between noise and noise. You also learn that not everyone hears it the same way.

The place I live now used to be quieter.
Not silent — just calmer.
Very little noise after dinnertime.

Lately, the rowdy elements have been spilling over. Helicopters overhead. Gunfire in the distance. Fireworks set off wherever someone finds enough open space and questionable judgment. Our backyard backs up to an empty parking lot, which apparently doubles as an excellent launchpad for against-the-law excitement. I’m very familiar with this, but I had grown fond of the peace and quiet.

Once, the wind from one of these exciting moments blew back toward us that it felt like a storm breeze blowing in fast and hard. That’ll wake you up faster than Eminem and Busta having a fast chat.

Meanwhile, my guy...sleeps through most of everything. 

That’s one of his superpowers.

He woke up briefly when the “firecrackers” started. Long enough to stop snoring. Long enough to decide whether it was worth staying awake. Then… boom… fucking out again. Back to sleep like the world hadn’t just ruffled itself.

Meanwhile...the dogs were trying to dig themselves into my womb.

This morning, they were wrecked. Curled up. Heavy-eyed. Still recovering.

Fireworks: reigning champs.

Dogs: zero.

We weren’t hungover. Just tired. The kind of tired that comes from vigilance, not celebration.

And here’s the thing I keep coming back to:
Quiet isn’t just the absence of sound. That can be terrifying.
It’s the absence of always having to stay alert.

To those who can sleep through anything — my hat is off to you. Truly. I’m envious.
Some of us stay awake because we know what “firecrackers” mean.

Today is a quiet day. The sun is even playing peekaboo.

No rush. No rematch scheduled just yet.

The dogs did get a small pep in their step and ventured outside while the sun said I see you, but the heavy slosh of the soaked ground with each step sent them right back in.

Moments like last night don’t disappear when the sun comes up.
They linger in the body.
So today, we’re letting the pace be its own pace.
Letting the dogs recover. Letting ourselves do the same.

The small things matter.

They’re just easier to notice when you slow down.