What I remember
about the Fourth of July, 1989.
The jar of cocktail sauce
bouncing out onto the floor
when I opened the refrigerator door.
It landed near my feet,
glass shattering,
a small slice appearing
atop my left foot.
It bled little,
but left a scar.
Our neighborhood was raucous.
My mom’s friend from work
came to stay with us
with her two-year-old girl,
a beautiful duo of color
with wide, bright smiles.
While walking the block of partiers,
some teens yelled racial epithets
and later egged our house.
Those kids are probably
doing time now somewhere
for the long haul.
Walking back across the parking lot
from the store, just the two of us
in our cute pink and green shorts,
some men leered, catcalling us
as we neared the car.
I didn’t notice them,
I was a teen
in a daydream,
but mama of color
whisked me back
with a flash.
I’m often still in daydreams,
ask anyone I know,
but what I remember
about the Fourth of July, 1989,
bled little
but left a scar.
My goodness, Jen, what a rotten memory to have to carry around and recall when the 4th rolls around. It's my least favorite holiday by far, a crowded, noisy, exercise in the worst of extroversion. Or so I see it. Someone said that all the evil in the world stems from one group thinking another group is less than human. That's illustrated here in the casually cruel, needlessly hurtful scenes described. Even when we are young and wrapped up in our own worlds, this stuff still gets through and sticks. I often wonder why, if they can't be kind, why people can't at least not go out of their way to hurt others. Meanwhile, I'll be glad when the annual bombardment is over.
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