by Olivia
You know, every Fourth of July, I watch the sky explode. It’s beautiful—loud and bright, screaming with color like it’s trying to wake something up. People cheer. I run around with sparklers. Staring at the little fireworks my family lights. And for a moment, it’s like the whole country—my whole life—is on the same page. No questions. Just fun. Red, white, and blue smeared across the sky like a promise I’m still trying to believe in. But I can’t help wondering…what are we really celebrating? Freedom? Okay. Freedom built on graves, borrowed breath, and treaties? That’s not what I’m celebrating right now. I’m celebrating my comfort. My silence. My love. My joys. Yes there is “freedom” where some voices still echo unheard in the back of the room. Where some people still don’t feel alright. Where fireworks sound a little too much like gunshots in certain ways. You ever notice how the louder the noise gets, the quieter the truth becomes? They say this day is about independence, about unity, about pride. But for me, it’s more like a mirror. One that shows me both a dream and a vision of jealousy. And yet…
I still look up.
Still hope.
Because the sky doesn’t care who you are—it gives its show to everyone. Even if it’s just for a night. Maybe that’s the most American thing of all. Not perfection, but reaching. The trying. The belief that something better could still be lit up…right after the silence. Right after the smoke clears.
So as I sit on my porch looking on the horizon listening to the shots heard round, I wish you a Happy Fourth while writing this. I guess. Cause I’m still reaching. Are you?