We turned into the driveway of my
brother's home and my Mom exclaimed, "Look at all those little
ones running around... aren't they just the cutest things you've ever
seen?!"
"They're all yours, Mom," I
replied. "You are indirectly responsible for all that cuteness."
She sat through an entire two hours of
pyromania display, watching the exploding sky with a smile on her
face. Watching her great grandbabes with wonder in her eyes.
My brother had downloaded a concert of
patriotic songs to play in the background. He's just corny that way.
In perfect time to the grand finale (Big Bad Mudder!) the heart squeezing sounds of 'Proud To Be An
American' wafted through the smoke-filled air.
I looked around at the gaggle of
squealing cousins defying the darkness with their spitting sparklers and neon
necklaces...
Grandparents and Great-grandparents sharing homemade ice cream with the littles...
My son and nephew, once little boys who liked to blow things up, now grown-ass men who like to blow things up...
My eyes settled on my tiny G-boy, lying
peacefully on top of his G-dude, eyes wide and shining.
It pulled on my heart to realize there are moments like this he will never remember. Moments I will never
forget.
He turned to me and smiled, reached for me to hold him.
And that's all it took for me to know that
he will always remember what really matters...
He will never forget that he is loved.
I am mostly proud of this country my G-boy has inherited, though I can't help but wish it was more like the one I grew up in... the one Lee Greenwood celebrated.
Truth is, some of My Fellow Americans seem to have gone a bit bonkers... climbing upon their high horses, jousting at pastel rainbows, arguing over artifacts, hating the sin of their neighbor because it's different from their own.
Because apparently, voicing one's opinion has become a National Sport.
What a waste of precious time.
They're like buttholes, you know...
opinions are. Just cause you have 'em, doesn't mean you should share
'em with everybody.
It's all noise.
So. Much. Noise.
Clanging cymbals. Loud gongs being banged in self-righteousness instead of love.
Independence Day of 2015 is history.
The smoke from the fireworks has cleared. The bombs bursting in air, the
rocket's red glare...? Not even a blip on my G-boy's radar. Loud, bright, explosive... and momentary.
The only thing he remembers is the love that surrounded him.
I'm going to try to be more like that little guy on his first Fourth of July.
Because everything else is just noise.
