A contribution by ChipsPaint2

Step into my memory, decades ago.

Guy Fawkes night. A young child, no more than eight. We went down to the local pebble beach, my father, siblings and me. It was fast-approaching summer, here at the south of the world, warm and delightful.

Locals had lined the bank of smooth stones with dozens of bonfires. They played music and danced, laughing as public fireworks crackled over our heads and the acrid smell of smoke mingled with the salt of the sea. My father handed us sparklers - the box lasted less than an hour, coloured patterns tracing bright trails across the night sky. We walked to the largest bonfire we could find, stacked high with beach driftwood.

I remember we sat down to admire the flames, my father and I. Embers would pop from the wood; I'd flinch in anticipation but my father sat stoic. One landed a mere inch from his hand and he seemed not to notice. He seemed invincible.

He's so old now, and so am I. But I remember, decades ago.

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