After my most heartrending holiday season thus far, the new year failed to begin convincingly hopeful. The absence of my father was felt by each of us in a way it would had a piece of TNT blown a hole in our chests. Other, real, fireworks took their toll as well, mutilating a kind and careful boy and reinforcing the notion that explosions and bombs have no place at festivities. In fact, they shouldn’t be present at a war either, but I guess then it wouldn’t be a war. Euphemistically named Magnolia Candle or Royal Party Stars & Pearls, these contraptions still are nothing but explosives. At least the makers of the Atomic Warlord and Cyborg Massacre are a bit clearer on this. And I wonder, are the creators of the Kalashnikov shooters having qualms about having used the name of a terrorist instrument for their party-popper? I suppose the editors of Charlie Hebdo would have preferred having terrorists detonate the fireworks version, instead of toting the actual weapon. But I’m not sure if the damage potential would have been smaller. Besides, guns are just another firework variety. Bombs, pyrotechnics, guns, mines; they’re all part of the Great family of Explosives. So let’s dispose of fireworks, and add war while we’re at it; what a marvelous idea. Anyway, this charred juvenile hand made the demure passing of the year even less exuberant than it had been. The single advantage: none of the kids present would dream of coming within half a mile of a piece of firework ever again. No need to show them gruesome pictures of hands that metamorphosed into bloody tentacles or eyes covered with dirty white patches; they were eyewitness to what this fun product can do.

Don’t get me wrong, I do like fireworks. As long as it’s organized by people who know what they’re doing. I’ve been a spectator at shows that made me feel I had swallowed a hallucinatory drug, they were that dazzling (the fact that perhaps my mind wasn’t quite sober is beside the point). But putting it in the hands of some dumb ass hooligan, or kids, which pretty much amounts to the same thing, is a foolproof recipe for trouble. Unfortunately, having pyrotechnicians organize it doesn’t eliminate the harm done to our environment: all those toxins, like dioxin and heavy metals (antimony for one), being released in an atmosphere that’s pretty fragile as it is. People with respiratory afflictions are advised to stay inside come midnight of the 31st. And then there’s the birds, normally sound asleep around that time, dashing from tree to tree in a blind panic because they literally have nowhere to hide. In 2011 it was the cause of death for thousands of birds in Arkansas, USA.

Lighting a couple of bengal flares on New Year’s Eve is not a civil right in every country. And back on the island, I understood why Ibiza has no need for fireworks around News Year’s Eve. The sky is perpetually bursting with real royal stars and moonlight that won’t peter out after five seconds, like Black Cat’s Moonshine.

And to my great surprise I found out we would be treated to a galactic firework display across these almost eternally clear night skies. A meteor shower called The Quadrantids flies between the 1st and the 7th of January, making it the perfect new year’s celebration.

Because I wanted to do it right, shortly before the peak amount of meteors to be sighted, I figured to involve my mother-in-law’s serious telescope (barely amateur) to view the falling stars even better. However, when I picked up the manual and saw that the first chapter had as a title “How to use this manual” I got discouraged. I mean, when you need a manual to read a manual, you can safely assume you won’t grasp the workings of the Celestron Spotting Scope unless you study it intensively for a few days, or weeks. More likely, you won’t grasp it. Ever. Apparently, my mother-in-law does, but she isn’t here. So.

One of the Quadrantids not seen by me

I ventured outside to find the radiant point of this shower, right below the Big Dipper, one of the three constellations I am able to locate. The other two are Orion and Cassiopeia, the ones my Dad pointed out to me. However, an overwhelming moon dominated the sky, honoring it’s name, Wolf Moon, and making it impossible to see all but the brightest stars. Peering like one obsessed, I did not manage to discover one measly star stealing across that almost diurnal night sky. Disappointed, expecting to be treated to a spectacle comparable to the Perseids I marveled at once in the French Alps, I went inside. It took me a beat to change my mind, and go out again. To admire the brightest and fattest moon I had ever seen. And as I looked at my razor-sharp shadow and everything soaking in that frozen light, my thoughts wandered off to my beautiful and lonely mother back in the Netherlands, fragile like a glass wing butterfly or those delicate fairy-tale gelata (jellyfish) that die if taken out of their aquatic habitat, and wished for her to open her eyes for the magic that still exists. My dear Mom, it’s as with these Quadrantids: just because you can’t see the falling stars, doesn’t mean they’re not there. And you can still wish upon them.

a glass wing butterfly