Other Fourths

July 04th. People milling the downtown streets, heedless of the odd vehicle passing through, the drivers white-knuckled and tense, weaving through a crowd that just doesn't care. We stick to the sidewalk and find a curb that looks fine for sitting.

A bar somewhere nearby plays shitty cover songs. Barefoot children a few feet away dance to all of it, indiscriminate, a startling amount of hip involved. My eyes sweep the mass of expectant spectators, noting the differences from what I'd see at home. Small-town farming families, the parents stuck in some early '90s time warp that involves teased bangs, jean shorts, white sneakers.

When I was a kid in Florida, we used to watch the fireworks display over the Banana River. Someone on Merritt Island put up a show every year. In the back corner of my favorite neighborhood playground along the east bank of the river, we'd sit on a blanket and watch in awe. I'm not sure how our parents tolerated all our heavy-handed oohing and ahhing.

Colorado was different, a lake. Prospect Lake. One year, a heavily intoxicated man sitting somewhere nearby spent the entire spectacle bellowing, "YEAH, BABY! YEAH! I LOVE THIS COUNTRY!" in the dark and my sister and I were the only people who acknowledged it in any way.

Living in southern Indiana meant watching from the edge of the Ohio River. Every year, my dad, my aunt, my cousin Lacy, and I would find a spot near the boat ramp and settle in, waiting ages for the sun to set and the fireworks to begin. Lacy and I would play cards and clapping games, guess which summery songs the city would pipe over the sound system along the river walk. I was good at guessing. When the sky grew dark, we'd lie back and look for the first star to wish on, something I got from my mom. I still do it.

Most July 04ths for the last decade, I've watched from along the Cape Fear. The Battleship North Carolina is anchored across the way and the fireworks fill the sky over it while "The Star-Spangled Banner" blares on repeat from somewhere, patriotic as hell. I never see it without texting Lacy to tell her I'm thinking of her. There are always loads of kids losing their minds over sparklers. I envy them.

And here I am, another year, another river. I'm watching from the Ohio again with our small, quiet group. Heather, Chris, my nephew, me.

Which is how it comes to pass that my sister and I watch the 04th of July fireworks together for the first time since we were children, occasionally murmuring, "Yeah, baby! Yeah!" to one another, laughing as a low-quality copy of "God Bless the USA" deafens everyone in that bar.

I picture the tiny versions of us from other Fourths nearly 30 years ago, sitting with my brother in a park that hasn't existed in decades. Indian-style on an old blanket laid out among the faded spring riders that were once meant to look like turquoise sea horses and red lions, our faces lifted to the sky, mouths agape when we're not pointing out our favorite style of fireworks, the smell of sulfur from spent firecrackers mixing with a hundred backyard grills fired up all over the neighborhood. Our parents were always on lawn chairs behind us, guarding the fresh sparklers and their smoldering counterparts, still glowing-hot at one end. We'd watch the show and then they'd walk us home under the safe, orange glow of the streetlights. In the front yard, they'd let us fire up the rest of the sparklers in the box, one by one, etching pictures in the dark that only lasted a moment.

Pictured: Brother (top right), sister (second from top right), me (second from bottom right), kids we might have watched fireworks with at some point (everyone else). Not pictured: The actual 04th of July.