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.