When I was younger, this time of year seemed filled with happy events and rituals. (The picture of my dad at left is from a happy summer many decades past.) Now, from Mother's Day through the Fourth of July, not a couple of weeks goes by without some date or holiday that reminds me of my parents' lives, and also their absence. Dad's birthay is the week after Mother's Day; Father's Day and the anniversary of Mom's death are in June; Dad died on July 5. There are even two sports events during this time, Wimbledon and the U.S. Open golf tournament, that hold special memories of them.
These things no longer make me feel as sad as they did right after my parents' deaths. But the rhythm of these months with their small detonations of grief and memory still has a bittersweet feel, as does the Fourth in particular. I'm not sure I will ever forgot going home from the hospital late in the evening of Independence Day, 2005, and seeing the fireworks of a holiday I had forgotten explode in the dark sky over the road I drove along. Dad, who had broken his hip three days before, was unconscious by this time, blessedly sleeping and peaceful. As I watched the bursts of color high above the road it felt as though he were speaking to me, reminding me that it was time for him to be free of a body filled with injuries and illness. Selfishly, I did not want him to go. What daughter who can count her father not just as parent but as friend ever does? But he was ready, and I knew it. No fireworks have ever looked more beautiful to me, or spoken more painfully of independence.
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