Each year I could sense it coming, could smell the ancient canvas tent, see the sparklers carving words into the air, and feel the heat of the day turn into a warm summer’s night. I could taste burgers laden with potato chips, and devour homemade vanilla ice cream.
Daph and I would sit with our cousin Heather and dream up our future lives. We thrived on silliness and immaturity and wishes. We jumped off the cinder-block wall as if we were famous gymnasts, and then ate raspberries fresh from the vine.
We threw Pop-Its on every inch of the patio and then watched Uncle Duane char the ground with black snakes and smoke bombs. After the sky darkened, dad would join in and light the ground bloom fireworks, usually forcing someone to jump out of the way as the flashing lights spun wildly across the lawn.
I’d finally climb into the tent and giggle with Daph and Heather until we fell asleep, waiting for early morning pancakes my grandma made.
I didn’t know it then, but a form of patriotism was morphing into existence as I felt the safety and security of being with my family.
