As was the annual tradition, you and your family were across the road, at your grandparents’ house.
You walked across the green (the patch of grass that separated the two sides of the horse-shoe-shaped col-de-sac), with the air full of mysterious smoke, and the sky full of friendly explosions.
Jacket potatoes were in the oven, wrapped in tinfoil, with a dollop of butter and a sprinkle of salt and pepper for company. It was the first thing you smelt.
Homemade toffee was in the baking tray, gooey and sweet.
You sat on the coal shed, with your sister and cousins, looking up at the sky. You only made sounds of awe; it was difficult to speak with your mouth glued shut with toffee.
Your dad, uncles, and grandad took turns lighting the fireworks, about ten feet away from where you were sitting.
Your grandad lit his with the glowing tip of his cigarette.
Up the fireworks went. Their echoes reached the ends of the earth and came back to you in no time at all.
The one thing you remember so clearly is seeing all of your family together, looking up, with their smiles a multitude of colours.
Thanks for reading.