Independence day

Uneasily at first, we gather on the top deck to watch the myriad explosions of light and sound. Japanese, Croatian, Mexican, Filipino, African-American and combinations too complex for simple tags, we make small talk and it gets easier as the light fades and the show begins. Some of us in sweatshirts, others in t-shirts, others still with towels or small blankets around their shoulders. The father of the Japanese kids has wrapped around his shoulders a small pink sleeping bag printed with the image of a blonde, blue-eyed doll. The kids laugh. “Bah-bie!” He laughs. “Bah-bie.” He shrugs. My son falls in love with the daughter of a Croatian man with a thick accent. Insists on standing next to her. Tries to impress her with small talk about the water damage our next-door neighbor’s place has seen, from the last flood, but at nine years of age, the girl is much too sophisticated for a four-year-old, and not a little weirded out by the topic of conversation.

I stare at the harbor, at the lights. Tune out the chatter. Breathe in the night air. Remember other nights like this, in other cities, other countries. Once a year, this look back. Like binoculars. One night, then another, then another, and a gradual pulling back to see all of those nights, to begin to recognize their patterns, and the bigger pattern, the biggest of all.

Like popcorn, the loudest part comes at the end. We say good night and make our way back down to our place, fireworks straggling here and there, as they will for the next couple of hours. For the next couple of days.