ORIGIN: Bad things come in threes. We meant no disrespect. Back then we didn’t know the rules, but now we do, and we are here to make things right. Mourning veils. Clockwork. And at long last fireworks. Our mermaids can finally sing to their hearts’ content. They can wreak havoc till there are no waves left to break in the sea.
Appearances can be deceiving. Colorful fireworks don’t go up in smoke. They fall. Like rain. To make up the darkest depths of the ocean.
I look up, and there they are. One, two, three heartbeats after the sun has set, before the stars can take their seats and decide my fate. Fireworks bring the night alive, and my fingertips hurt. My lungs hurt too. How could they not, when facing such breathtaking fireworks? I know that I could crush corals and paint my nails in every color of the reef, but that wouldn’t make this pain go up in smoke. If I followed where my heart leads, I would die like any other fish out of water, without ever getting my hands on the colors I crave. Colors that don’t taste like tears and heartbreak. Colors still so hot as to burn my fingertips and rewrite who I am.
I have seen fish fly. I have seen dolphins leap so high that they put rabbits to shame. I have no doubt in my heart that fireworks are well within my reach. The moon is torn between black and white. That’s why she calls to grey rabbits and dolphins alike. And they leap, without looking back, to keep her company. But my mermaid tail is brimming with metallic fish scales. That’s why those fireworks are calling my name. Because they know that my heart is open to them, and as soon as I leap out of the sea, every last scale will spill from my tail. To be replaced by dozens and dozens of droplets of different colors, that I will keep safe from the loneliness of the deepest black and the nothingness of the shallowest white.
There is nothing like tilting your head back and getting lost in fireworks. Summer nights are a respite. From the past. From the future. You don’t wonder where the fireworks come from. You don’t wonder what will come of the smoke. You only have eyes for those ephemeral colors, that have risen like insects from a body of water. And your heart automatically understands that there is nothing to mourn. Only a fool would try to preserve those colors in mason jars. But I am not one of those. I am not keen on drowning, and you won’t see me adding darkness to the sea. If I were to cry, it would be in gratitude.
What’s there to like? Fireworks are loud, louder than beating hearts, but they don’t make me feel alive. Fish have colorful scales too. But then they die and fall to the bottom of the ocean. It’s called marine snow. Snow. Such a gentle word. But it only tastes like ashes in my mouth. And I don’t have to swim to the surface, I don’t have to open my mouth and stick out my tongue, to know what the snow of those fireworks tastes like. I know that you mean well, but don’t waste your breath. When I die, don’t scoop up my ashes. Don’t make them into fireworks. Because when the smoke clears, I know where I will be. And it won’t be up there among the stars.