Fourth of July - Sandra Anfang

[Larry Robinson]

Fourth of July

The tension began a few days early.
We’d stand on chairs, 
pull down the big quart jars
hands barely meeting around their thick waists.

Grandma would punch holes in the lids;
and we’d sit stoically 
in the yard
waiting for lightning bugs to roost.

A premonition of the fireworks to come
I couldn’t bear to keep them on my dresser overnight;
couldn’t square my momentary pleasure 
with the finality of their death. 

Finally, the day would dawn.
Sweltering, we’d crank the deafening attic fan
and down our oatmeal, 
hearts already in the park.

We’d lay out blankets early on the hill
stow the tinfoiled bowls of slaw in shady spots
while neighbors paved the lawn 
like frontline troops.

Then Dad would set the funny olive cap upon his head
and stride off with the other men 
marching to a world called war
I didn’t understand.

This dark detour from suburban life
from softball games and Sunday school
from right and wrong, and black and white
cast deep shadows in my mind.

I remember the swell of patriotic hearts,
my mother’s high vibrato,
the rough weave of the small flags we clutched, 
the myths we were suckled on.

	- Sandra Anfang