A Night the River Burned and I Wished She Was There

 

WaterFire hits you before you see it. It hits you in the ears first — loud, sweeping Italian opera strings bouncing off every brick wall, every glass tower, every puddle in downtown Providence like the city had hired the world’s most dramatic soundtrack and then told it to follow you. Your chest hums along whether it wants to or not. I swear I caught myself humming, too, and I can’t even carry a tune.

By the canal, the crowd had already claimed their spots. Blankets, folding chairs, couples leaning in close enough that I half expected them to fuse into single entities. People weren’t wandering — they’d hunkered down. The kind of hunkered down that makes you look around and realize, oh, this is serious. Providence does this big. And there I was, trying to wedge myself in without looking like the guy who came alone and doesn’t know where to put his hands.

Because I missed Jamie.

Not just a little, either. I missed her laugh, her running commentary on how ridiculous it is to scream through opera at 50,000 decibels, her fire-red hair catching the torchlight like the flames themselves wanted to dance with it. Watching all these couples lean in, whisper to each other, steal bites of snacks — I realized just how hollow the night felt without her. The cinematic fire, the reflections, the music, even the chaos — it all seemed like it was built for two.

And then the fire.

Floating braziers cracked and hissed, sparks drifting up like tiny rebels with a death wish. Boats glided past slowly, torch-bearers feeding the flames until the river looked molten, as if it had remembered it was once lava and wanted a comeback. And the reflections — the skyscrapers, the old brick, the water — it all doubled and fractured and shimmered. The buildings themselves seemed to participate, catching the flames and bouncing them back like the city was performing some huge, smoky, expensive magic trick.

The smoke was sweet and thick, curling around the crowd like it had somewhere important to go. Cedar and heat and just enough damp river air to make you inhale it like a reminder: you’re alive, and yes, you’re missing someone who should be here.

People added their own soundtrack — murmurs, shuffles, the occasional laugh or “excuse me” — a rhythm to accompany the opera and the fire. And through it all, I walked along the canal, letting the chaos and beauty wash over me. The flames flickered, reflections danced, sparks fell, and every flicker reminded me again: Jamie wasn’t here.

I caught glimpses of the city around me — faces in windows, the glint of glass towers reflecting fire in impossible patterns, bridges that looked like molten gold in the water. The city was gorgeous, overwhelming, cinematic… and completely missing my favorite person in it.

WaterFire is chaotic, loud, and beautiful. But even amid the opera and the sparks, it’s quiet enough to feel absence. You notice it in the pauses between the flames, in the way reflections bend, in the smoke curling up like it knows what’s missing.

Some nights, the city is enough to stop you. Other nights, the missing person makes every reflection burn brighter, makes the opera hit harder, makes the fire feel a little more like it’s trying to reach across the water just for you.

And that night, every flicker, every reflection, every swooping string reminded me: yeah, I was alone — and yeah, I would have given anything for Jamie to be there laughing at the music, arguing about the best spot to watch the fire, stealing my hot chocolate before I got a chance to finish it. 

— Closing Notes from the Canal

I’m dropping a few random photos below — the fire on the river, the reflections off the buildings, and whatever else I managed to point my phone at without falling into the canal. None of them do the night justice, but they catch pieces of it: the glow, the smoke, the crowd, the way Providence seems to stretch itself taller when the flames rise.

And if you notice those little black enamel stencils on the sidewalks in a couple of the shots — that’s just Providence being Providence. Quiet bits of street poetry tucked into concrete cracks, the kind of thing you’d miss unless you’re walking slow or looking down at the exact right moment. They’re small, easy to overlook, but somehow they fit perfectly in a city that sets its river on fire just to remind you to pay attention.

More photos, less sense — that’s how we’ll end this one.