July 4: Independence Day, Barbecue, "After the Fireworks"

It was a strange Independence Day.  No parades or community picnics.  No snow cones or cotton candy.  No corn on the cob dripping with butter and salt.  And, at dusk, no huge fireworks display to "ooohhhh" and "aaaahhhhh" at.

Instead, I slept in.  Got up and made my family breakfast.  After running a few errands, I took a nap.  Played the pipe organ for a Saturday evening Mass.  Then, I drove out to a camp on a lake, where I feasted on shish kebob and bratwurst.  As dusk crept in, we shot off some fireworks purchased at a road-side stand.

As I said, it was strange.  Unlike any Independence Day that I can recall in my adult life.  Its sedate pace brought to us by the pandemic.  But it was also wonderful, full of the miracles of family and togetherness and laughter.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

After the Fireworks

by:  Martin Achatz

We walk to our car in the dark,

blankets cradled in our arms,

stars as distant as the morning

we first met, marriage and kids

not even ingredients in the roux

of our thoughts, just longing for

when we could come together

on a beach, wade into lake

water, hands and lips weightless

as jellyfish on our bodies,

stinging, pulling back, gliding

over and in and around, skin

a night sky on July fourth,

full of comet, spark, tail, waterfall.

Peony.  Chrysanthemum.  Diadem.

Crossette.  Kamuro.  Bengal fire.

Afterward, as we dressed, we

still smelled our combustion,

tasted potassium, nitrogen, copper

on our tongues for hours.

Tonight, we load belongings

into our Ford.  Books, sparklers,

half-eaten bag of cotton candy,

our daughter, still dazzled

by Summer Storm and Pyro Glyphics.

We drive home in silence

after the fireworks, think of how

we, on this Independence Day,

depend on each other, how we

still climb into bed each night,

hungry to be blinded again.