It was the Fourth of July.
We wore red, white, and blue.
My dad grilled burgers and hot dogs.
I waited for his dazzling smile
as we watched the sky
from the glow of the pool light,
chlorine clinging to our bodies.
Colorful bulbs strung above,
dim and warm,
fading into
the clearest kind of summer night.
She called it Fortune July.
We’re underwater,
eyes burning,
fingers pruned,
unable to inhale
or exhale
from a thing
that only consumes.
It was the Fourth of July,
and everything felt good
as I bathed in my favorite season,
celebrating the independence
of a nation
that rarely earns adoration
only hesitation
where hatred is sharpened
then numbed
by the sound of fireworks
and the sinking realization
that we aren’t okay.
But I feel love anyway.
I still see my dad’s
crinkling brown eyes
and hear his singing voice
over cicadas,
buzzing like a live wire,
and my cousin’s and sister’s laughter,
a balm for any pending disaster.
My mom brings iced sun tea on a plastic tray.
Drops of pool water fall from my hair.
(Daily Writing 062)
Thoughts?