Liam Connors

I’m 8 years old, and it’s the Fourth of July.
Sprinklers peek through freshly mown grass
To create a barrier between us and the sun.
Pops is in the shed wrestling with bags of ice and sixers of Bud.
Mom is at the bakery picking up the catering order she placed two weeks ago.
I wear my red, white & blue tank top,
Lest I be tried for treason.
One deafening cannon blast signals the start of the parade.
The sound, once frightening, joyously vibrates through my bones.
Friends and strangers crowd the sidewalks just outside our house,
For on this day, we know only one universal land.
Uncle Sam walks by on a pair of stilts,
followed by jugglers,
followed by firetrucks dressed in American flags.
Ribs smoked for hours permeate the air in our yard,
As family and friends fill themselves with burgers and beers.
Wiffle balls fly at dastardly speeds off plastic bats.
My best friend Jacob and I play on the same team.
The adults sit by the pool and talk about taxes,
Or whatever it is adults talk about.
The sun drops slowly over the roofs of the houses,
And the sky fills with combustion, near and far.
We climb through upstairs windows to the second roof,
And ogle at the man-made wonders in front of our eyes.
My baby cousin cries from the sound as he shields his ears,
But I couldn’t be happier.
I turn to my sister and say:
“This is my favorite day of the year.”

It’s 20 years later, and it’s the Fourth of July,
The droplets on the bottle in my hand rival the beads of sweat dripping down my forehead.
I pour a beer on the grass for Pops in his eternal rest,
While mom picks up the catering order she placed two weeks ago.
I wear the only clothes I have that are clean.
A cannon blast signals the start of the parade,
And my headache grows exponentially.
Crowds gather near the front of our yard,
As I shield myself in the back to avoid familiar faces.
I find myself repulsed as Uncle Sam walks by on stilts
Indoctrinating the youth with nationalism.
The firetrucks in the procession are driven by men who’ve been drunk since yesterday.
Unable to bother another minute with this facade,
I creep to the grill and grab a burnt Bratwurst.
As family piles in, I am chastised for my absence at my brother-in-law’s birthday party,
Though he receives no censure for his bigoted remarks,
As in unison they argue,
“But he’s family!”
Empty bottles continue to find their way into my hand,
As my introverted nature slowly dissipates.
Jacob walks past the house,
And since he seems clean, I decide not to bring up the money he owes me.
The kerosene smell from the grill begins to make me nauseous,
And I head inside to lay down in the air conditioning.
The fireworks make it hard for me to rest,
So I text my friends to say:
“This day sucks.”