Fireworks have always been representational of something magical. As loud and bold as they are, that’s also how romantic they are.

Two years ago, I was in New Orleans for July Fourth. It’s no big deal; New Orleans is just a jump away from Fairhope, and we visited all the time. In fact, it was “our city.”

We walked from our hotel all around downtown. He bought me a margarita on Bourbon Street that tasted exactly like graham crackers. We walked along, sipping our treats, until we hit the river. We stopped to watch some street performers dance and drum. We then reserved our spot on top of a concrete fence to watch the fireworks.

We watched them intently; it’s his favorite holiday after all. We joked and gasped and enjoyed. As the fireworks began to go into the grand finale mode, he turned and kissed me. It was a brief but undeniably beautiful kiss, and it was my first under fireworks. I was swept off my feet.

This is the kind of thing I’ll remember about him: our moments together that rivaled the most perfect scenes in old movies. These memories are what makes life as spectacular as Independence Day.