Valentine’s Day has fallen on 25th Street, what we call Rosenberg here on Galveston Island, and from above the whole scene glows like a carnival set down at the edge of the sea. The Pleasure Pier burns bright against the dark Gulf, its rides spinning in neon arcs as if the night itself had decided to whirl. Floats inch their way down the center of the street in a river of light, sirens flashing red and blue, beads arcing through the air like brief constellations before falling into outstretched hands. From this height you can see the geometry of it all, the tidy houses holding their ground while the parade advances between them, music rising in steady pulses that carry all the way to our wraparound porch on 33rd. It is Mardi Gras and Valentine’s Day together, romance and revelry braided into one long shimmering procession.

The island feels almost quixotic in its devotion to celebration, as if it believes joy itself is a kind of resistance against the ordinary weight of the world. Fire engines crawl forward like ceremonial beasts crowned in light, and golf carts dart through side streets with reckless delight. Lovers lean into one another beneath neon and salt air, and strangers shout greetings as if they have known each other for years. When the drums fade for a moment and a strand of beads lies broken on the pavement, another question rises as steady as the tide. Why do we gather like this year after year, and what are we calling in when we lift our cups and our voices to the night? Celebration is beautiful, but every ritual opens a door somewhere. Are we invoking simple joy and human connection, or are we brushing against something older that remembers who we are beneath the masks and the noise? When the last float has passed and the street returns to its ordinary breathing, what remains in the heart of a city that has just rehearsed forgetting its limits, its silence, and perhaps even its need for something higher than itself?