When someone lit off fireworks at a fourth of July party and he kept his eyes closed the entire time, I realised. Emerson, I know what you’re looking for, and it’s not in our small town anymore. It’s not in the steps you count or the breaths you hold, and it’s not what’s in between us. It’s in the car while your sister’s driving and you’re screaming the lyrics to your favourite song without caring. It’s in the stars when the whole world is silent. It is the feeling of holding your hand, the feeling when I remember that you will have to leave me someday to find what you are looking for. It’s there when a mother kisses a child goodnight, the first flower of spring, the last snow storm of winter. When the powers shut off and the whole world is lost and quiet and quiet and quiet and quiet.
You’ve been searching in all the wrong places, you haven’t been sleeping, you’ve been hurting yourself to find it.
It was in the fireworks that night.
One late night, you asked me if I was coming with you. When I asked you were we were going you said you were going to find what you were looking for. Thinking you were just overtired, I went to sleep, and the next morning when you were missing out of your home, everything made sense. Emerson, I get it now. My answer is yes.