Yesterday during fourth of July, we drove through Chinatown and it was glorious.

A firework bursted in front of us, splashing it sudden blue, red, and yellow sparks between the Chinatown facade. Bursting into millions of colors. Another firework squealed and set off sparks. The tires silently rolled over the remainders of paper with the moonroof open. The glee of observers seemed to touch me, but I grimaced slightly, wondering if the ashes would fall in and my eyes would be injured. A group of Asian males scattered to the sidewalks letting the cars pass through, running over the tattered cardboard on the ground, the remnants of a recently set firework.

Deja vu of moments in Pittsburgh passed through my chest, reminding me of how fireworks is legal there. But definitely not here in California.

Suddenly as we made a right turn, a voice yelled, “Po po! Five oh!”

Blue and red lights now flashed without the beating pows of a firework. It screeched behind us up the hill.

Then moments later when we craned our neck toward the street, it was empty and silent once more in the dark storefronts of San Francisco chinatown.