3rd of July

It's July 3rd.
Three years ago it was three weeks
until your death.
We knew it was coming but when, exactly?

But July 3rd meant fireworks in our town.
A silly tradition that I found both
embarrassing and convenient.
What town celebrates the 3rd of July?
A redneck, backwards one?
One with a struggling budget seeking
low prices on fireworks masters?
Yet, it did make for a prolonged
Independence Day celebration,
sort of like Christmas Eve, I guess.

But this was a different 3rd of July.
This one had you bound to a
hospital bed in our living room.
A breathing machine's mask
strapped to your face.
Its beeps and warnings reminding
us of the fragility of your being.

As night approached some of
your dad-friends offered to come
sit with you - to monitor the machine,
adjust the mask, watch over you
with laughter and conversation.

I demonstrated the intricacies
of the cough machine.
This was slightly more daunting -
had to be done in balance
with the breathing machine.
Two machines to do for you
what was becoming too difficult
for you to do on your own.

Hesitantly, yet needingly, the girls
and I left for the town festivities.

We wandered through crowds
seeking fun... maybe familiar faces...
a chance to be outside the house
and away from all that machinery
and caregiving.

No one knew. People laughed
and shopped at booths and
bought ice cream.
Excitement grew for the
upcoming sky show.

I wavered between trying to
grasp a semblance of joy and
witnessing my inner numbness.
Normalcy would be gone forever.

With very few dining choices,
we happily landed in the line of
Cafe Luna - a place, like you,
that is now gone.
And we sat on the curb and ate.
Filling our bellies with real food,
something you could no longer enjoy.

So there it was - that night - with
you at home being tended to while
the girls and I embarked on
strained celebration.
​
And here it is - this day - three
years later with you now gone and
the girls and I contemplating
whether or not to go watch
fireworks on the 3rd of July.

---