Joy exploded on the face of little Nathan Eddings as the flower of red and yellow burst in the sky, spilling sparks, illuminating the night air.  The concussion followed seconds later, sounding like distant thunder.  More fireworks from at least a dozen displays filled the horizon with blues, greens, yellows, whites.  Nathan tried to see them all, his head swiveled first left, then right, then back.

On the street below, a blossom whirred and buzzed like a giant angry bee, glowing bright green, hovering over the cement, a tiny alien space ship gone berserk.  Nathan squealed with delight and squirmed in his mother’s lap.

“Sit still, Nathan.  That’s a long fall.”

Nathan averted his attention only for a moment to look down the slope of the second story roof, the ground below nearly invisible, the aluminum extension ladder peeking above the gutter.  Next to him, his father smiled and pointed.  Nathan returned his gaze to the far off horizon where, from their house on the hill, they could watch the displays of numerous celebratory communities.

With a scream of protest, a bottle rocket shot into the air from the neighbor’s yard behind them.  Nathan flinched, then laughed as the tiny missile exploded, crackled with white light, then fizzled out to nothing but a falling stick.  Another followed, then another, from all sides they launched.  Some exploded, some crackled, and some trailed off with hardly a sound.

The wet, warm air carried the smell of sulfur to Nathan’s small nose.  He thought of rotten eggs or smelly farts and giggled, but cut it short as the staccato of firecrackers from the street below startled him, so loud, so close, seeming to last forever.  He covered his ears and watched the colorful display in the distance, a smile etched permanently below his wide eyes.

Belgrade, Yugoslavia, June 6

Fear consumed the face of little Pedja Todorovic as a burst of red and yellow, in the shape of an inverted bowl,  lit up the night sky.  The concussion followed seconds later, sounding like distant thunder.  In at least a dozen places more bursts illuminated the horizon.  Pedja swiveled his head, trying to see them all, wondering if any of his school friends were where he saw the 
lights, fervently praying they were not.

A myriad of white streaks screamed into the sky, anti-aircraft tracers in search of their invisible targets.  Erratic drum beats filled the humid air.  Angry men on the street cursed and yelled while Pedja whimpered and squirmed in his mother’s lap.

“Be still, Pedja, be still.  We’re safe.”

From behind their front window they watched the light show.  No one in their neighborhood ran for the shelters.  And though nearly all wore a badge that proclaimed, “target”, they felt safe, knowing they were far from any real target.

His father laid a hand on Pedja’s shoulder and squeezed.  Pedja averted his attention from the glowing horizon only for a second.  His father’s expression was dark, mouth turned down, eyes hard, brows together.  But when he looked at his son, his eyes softened, his mouth straightened.  He squeezed the boy’s shoulder again.  Pedja returned his gaze to the far off horizon, where from their house on the hill, they could watch the burning of their city.

With a shrill whine, a cruise missile plummeted from the sky and landed close, maybe just down the street.  The explosion launched Pedja out of his mother’s lap and onto the hard wooden floor.  He whimpered again, then cried as debris, like giant hail, fell on the roof of their house.

Through the open window, the wet, warm air carried the smell of burning wood, rubber, and plastic to Pedja’s small nose.  He could only hope his best friend Dule was okay, that it wasn’t his house demolished and now burning.  He cried more, but cut it short as the staccato burst of machine gun fire from a nearby street startled him, so loud, so close, seeming to last forever.  He covered his ears and clenched his eyes closed, but could not rid himself of the burning images etched permanently in his mind.

South St. Louis County, USA, July 5

Nathan burst through the front door and ran into the street, clutching a paper bag in his small fist.

“Nathan!” his mother called.  “Watch for cars.”

“Oh, Mom.  This is a court.”

His mother came outside and sat on the front porch, shaking her head, but smiling.  A rabbit ran from their yard into a neighbors, stopped, watched the small boy warily, and munched on a clover leaf.

Nathan bent and picked up a long red stick with a shredded paper wrapping on the end.  It smelled like a burned match.  He threw it in the air and made a whooshing noise as it tumbled through the thick late morning humidity.  As the spent bottle rocket completed its upward movement, arced, and fell toward the ground, Nathan threw his arms in the air and made an exploding sound.

He looked at his mother.  She smiled.  From the oak tree in the center of the court, a mockingbird sang, changing his tune every few seconds.  Up the street a dog barked.  Probably Tim’s German Shepherd, Nathan thought.  His own beagle answered from their back yard.

He ran toward the stick he’d just thrown, stopping three times on the way to pick up two other similar spent rockets, and one cylindrical object made of the same type of paper as on the end of the rockets.

“Blo...bloss...blossom.  Blossom.  Look, Mom, a blossom.  One of those that goes whir and floats in the air.”

She nodded and smiled.  Two neighborhood women, Nathan did not know their names, came fast-walking past him on the sidewalk.  They wore gym shorts and T-shirts and both waved and smiled.

He smiled back, then stuffed the used blossom in his paper bag and ran through the court looking for more used fireworks to pick up.

Toward lunch time, Nathan tired of his task.  He picked up his now half-full paper bag and went to his front porch.  His mother had gone in some time ago, probably too hot to stay outside.  The bangs of his brown hair clung to his forehead.  He wiped them aside and gazed at the blue sky.  In his mind, the sky darkened, and flowers of light exploded, raining streaks of color.  He wished the celebration could start all over again that night.

Belgrade, Yugoslavia, June 7

Pedja clutched his mother’s hand as they tentatively stepped through the door, his father right behind.  Smoke hung in the morning air and mixed with the mist.

In their tiny yard and in the cracked street was debris, roof shingles, splintered boards, scraps of cloth.  The family stepped off their stoop and into the yard.  Pedja looked back.  Scattered across their roof was more debris.  It looked like a child had played there and left his toys behind.

Old Mr. Neskovich walked past them, his head bent and shaking back and forth.  Unintelligible sounds issued from him.  The three of them watched the old man’s passing without comment.

Pedja bent and picked up a long post, rounded at the top, charred at the bottom.  A bed post, he realized.  He started shaking and dropped the piece of wood.  His mother hugged him to her hip.

He looked down the street.  Four houses down, only four houses away, he saw a hole where the Lazic’s used to live.  Dule’s house was gone.  On either side of the blackened spot, where his best friend’s house had been, the other two houses were missing half of their structures.  Neighbors milled around the damaged homes, looking like they were lost.  A fist clenched Pedja’s heart and squeezed until he thought he would not be able to breath.  His head hurt from the effort of not crying.

“Come on, let’s go help,” Pedja’s father said.

The family walked down the street toward the carnage.  The smell of burning wood grew stronger as they approached.  Pedja felt sick to his stomach, his meager breakfast of creamed rice and hard bread sat like a lump.

Someone threw a large board onto a pile.  It landed with a crash.  Pedja jumped, the sound magnified in his mind.  He swore he heard the whining of a bomb.  He gripped his mother’s hand harder, pressed himself to her side.  She looked down at him, then put her hand on his head.

“It’ll be okay,” she murmured.

Pedja’s father joined a group of men standing close to the burnt wreckage of the Lazic’s house, while his mother and he stayed in the street and watched.  The people talked in hushed tones.  Each time Pedja heard a pop or crackle from wood still burning, he shuddered, able only to think of gunfire.

A thin, ragged dog trotted past, eyeing them warily, tail between its legs, ears twitching.  When one of the older neighborhood boys ran toward it, the dog bolted and loped up the street, watching the boy over its sharp shoulder bone.

Pedja wished he could have a dog.

One of the men called out, “Over here.”

Pedja’s father and four other men trotted toward the one who had called.  Quickly, they pried away boards and pieces of shattered furniture.  Pedja tried to pull away from his mother to see what they’d found, but she held him close.  He looked up at her.  Tears formed in the corners of both her eyes.  Pedja returned his attention to his father.

Two of the men bent and each grabbed one end of something, then stood.  Between them was a blackened piece of cloth.  Pedja couldn’t understand how some tatters of cloth could require two people to lift.  With his father in the lead, the five men, two carrying what Pedja concluded was a bundle of laundry, approached.

As they passed Pedja and his mother, his father said softly, “It’s little Dule.”

Pedja suddenly realized, though he could not see it, since the men shielded their bundle from him, that the laundry was really his best friend’s burnt and crushed body.  He stared, mute, as the grim processional marched up the street to find a suitable place to put the body while the clean up continued.

His mother walked back toward their house.  Numb, Pedja followed, pulled along, no longer caring where he was or what he did.  She sat on the wooden steps leading to the side door.  He sat beside her, staring at the neighborhood, but not seeing the morning’s activity, instead seeing the bright lights in the night sky, hearing the whine and screams of the cruise missiles, the anti-aircraft guns, the jets overhead.  Tears flowed down his face.  He prayed for the day to last forever, dreading the coming of night, when the terror would begin all over again.