Lying in bed in the mostly dark listening to the occasional boom. This was, of course, a very different Fourth of July. Not devoid of fireworks but nothing like the war-zone bombast of the past.
Good.
I'm already fading away to sleep, but the relative quiet of the neighborhood tonight takes my brain to two places. First to the fact that we, at least in these more thoughtful parts of the country, just don’t want to celebrate this fraught history and tormented, tormenting place. And second, that I miss the little boy who I used to have to take into the bathroom with the loud ceiling fan and sing to on Fourth of Julys past.
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