We walked in a clump among the crowds of people filling the sidewalks. We had to stick to the group so that we wouldn’t get lost in the never-ending sea of families and friends. Every year it was the same thing, there were the people that camped out in their spots surrounding the field and those that walked up last minute. We waited until the last minute, the Finnerty’s, my Dad, me, and anyone else who decided to hop along for the view. Voices of people I knew and people I didn’t surrounded me and circled the air until I couldn’t distinguish what any voice was saying, just that there were sounds and they were frequent. We had to shout to make sure we heard each other, being so closely surrounded and with the addition of music from other directions. Suddenly a whistle pierced the air, Mr. Finnerty’s signature call to all of us, and we filed over in the direction of our personal GPS screech. Once we picked the perfect spot, on a random street or squeaking our sneakers into a patch of grass, we stayed and waited. Suddenly the music we were waiting for started, and everyone fell silent. Every head turned towards the sky, waiting for the first boom. There it was. It was as if the whole world sat there, dazzled and silenced by each firework sizzling up into the sky and coming, with a boom, into its eruption. It’s as if the sky shushed us with the very first sizzle, and though the music and firework bangs filled our eardrums, everyone was silent. We were as silent as we had ever been, until it came to an end with immediate applause and cheers.