On Victoria Day mama warned me about playing with fireworks in the park. “Just go there and watch,” she said. “But keep your hands in your pockets and don’t touch anything.” At dusk, in the park, people started lighting firecrackers and setting off rockets. When an older kid offered me his mortar, I took it and blithely dropped a rocket in the tube. But the tube exploded in my hand. Afraid mama would beat me for disobeying her, I hid the blistered hand from her for days until it grew so infected the stench betrayed both my cowardice and guile.
“I love telling stories.” – the writer