The 4th

The neighbors mimicked ghosts that evening, all of them moaning in unison at the vibrant, artificial bursts illuminating the darkened sky.

The sound was a signal of sorts to the raccoons, a welcomed serenade for the once unwanted party guests. Now free to dance unnoticed between suntanned legs, they easily scavenged the yard, sifting through the discarded scraps of the forefathers distant kin.

The youngest of the children were so small then, not as courageous as their idolized brothers and sisters. Frightened by the booms, they cowered in their mother’s arms, as unsure as the neighbor’s dog fervently gnashing at its leash to break loose and run.

The oldest of the children joined blindly, however, the power of the ritual dictating the pulse of things. There was no conflict in their hearts, or deeper meaning to be extrapolated. Presence was of the highest importance, questions be damned.

It is a sight to see when you watch the moment rather than become lost in it. For the first year out of many prior, this feels all wrong. It’s misplaced, off kilter, and yet the shroud of complacency still seems to want to stick to one’s skin as effortlessly, as furtively as it always has.

I realize now that I should have taken my boys to the mountains that night. I should have taken them to the stars.

*This was written in the Summer of 2020 when a renewed focus was being put on police brutality. The whole country felt like it was burning. The 4th of July seemed inappropriate that year. I chose to observe rather than participate.