January 2020 Winner
Bittersweet
Written By: Rosemary Stride
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Smoky gunpowder tangy in my nostrils; cocoa thick and sweet in my throat; a hot jacket potato dripping with butter and salt scorching my palette; a spicy gingerbread man secreted deep in my coat pocket. And Dad. Screwing wads of newspaper into coils to stuff under the towering woodpile and start the bonfire blazing; shooing us away before he pins the Catherine wheel to the fence and sets it spinning; choosing one of us – who will be the lucky one this year? – to light the biggest rocket. Bonfire night. Firework night. Guy Fawkes. Remember, remember, the fifth of November.
Flames dart from the base of the bonfire, crackling like demons, licking up the branches we have spent days collecting. Up and up until they torment the toes of the scruffy tramp who perches atop, looking down in horror at the gaggle of juvenile ghouls gathered around his pyre to applaud his imminent incineration. He’s played his part, our effigy of Guy Fawkes, pushed around the neighbourhood in the wheelbarrow as we begged “A penny for the guy, mister?” Pockets filled with sweets bought with our earnings, we now bay for his demise.
Remember, remember. How could I forget? Guy Fawkes night may not be a cause for celebration in Australia, but the New Year is, and each year the fireworks rekindle sweet memories. Dad loved them. Every year he tried for a bigger, better spectacle: Chinese crackers that jumped further; golden rain that stormed rather than showered; Catherine wheels that didn’t get stuck; Roman candles with new colours; sparklers that lasted long enough to write our names – how many family names could you write before it went out?
This year, too many names have been written in fire, and extinguished. It will be some time before we know how many. Firework displays planned for Christmas and New Year have been the subject of debate. Heated debate. Should they go ahead or not? It’s insensitive to those affected. What about those who’ve already invested time and money in the events? It’s adding to the global warming responsible for initiating the drought and conflagration. Could they be a useful means of raising money to assist those affected?
Pop, pop. BANG! I sit up. I’ve slept through it. New Year. I leap out of bed, rush to the back deck and catch distant explosions of light in the night sky, waterfalls of colour vying with the stars, and the lights of planes coming into land. Transient bursts of red, yellow, green and blue illuminate the darkness, incandescent above the trees. Standing there in my thin cotton nightdress, grateful for the cool sea breeze, I’m transported back across the hemispheres, across the decades, to those chilly English bonfire nights. And Dad.
A few streets away people are singing Auld Lang Syne, kissing, hugging, wishing one another prosperity in the year ahead. I cross my fingers. This time next year, I hope I’ll be able to relish the fireworks with less ambivalence. And remember, remember.