This was another first. The first Fourth. Actually Mom hated when people called it “The Fourth of July” instead of “Independence Day.” She was ultra patriotic and loved our country…I love that about her, even if she never could break my “Fourth of July” habit. The woman loved a theme and Independence day does its theme like the best of them. You know what’s killing me about holidays recently? They seem smaller than they should. Calmer and not nearly chaotic enough. One personality, one extra warm body makes more of a difference than you’d think. Anyways, I thought that this first Fourth of July would be harder on me than it was. Last year’s celebration was the last event Mom hosted.
She tye dyed shirts with the kids, had water games and activities for humans and dogs alike, and made sure all the stops were thoroughly pulled out.
I miss her.
But the day itself was mostly fine. It was much harder on my sister. Grief is obnoxious like that…striking at the most inopportune times. She and her boyfriend had gone on a quest to procure epic (and illegal) fireworks so we could do the thing right. Officers tend to turn a blind eye to illegal fireworks on the actual day. However, she needed the night off so we celebrated quietly with working around the house, a lovely dinner with grandparents, a birthday cake for our country (Thanks, Corra!), and fireworks via YouTube. There were also sparklers and baby bunnies so it was a great night. Different isn’t bad. Sometimes it’s just lacking in the chaos that defines a proper holiday in my mind. I’m sure we’ll find it again. We always do.