When we were young, my parents would take my brother and I to see fireworks over the fourth. Or we’d gather with friends to fire our own from the edge of the dock. And when the roaring stopped, and the last flickers of light would fade against the night sky, I would wait to spot the small canister parachutes floating along the water top. I’d drag dad by the hand and excitedly point to where I saw them bobbing, while he’d lay belly down on the dock and reach out to grab them as they drifted in. The fourth of July was always a happy time we’d all spend together.
Two years ago, dad had just started treatment. He was feeling strong, finally upright from a bought of infection that sidelined him after surgery. Really, you couldn’t tell he was sick. He was able, happy.
So that holiday weekend, we gathered with friends for cocktails and walked to the shoreline to watch fireworks arch over the riverfront. Most of us, myself included, found spots near the top of the hill to sit, as crowds had already gathered and rolled out blankets at the seawall’s edge. But dad, he weaved past couples and huddled families to find a spot of grass near the water, where he stretched out on the flat of his back as the fireworks started.
Watching him, I felt a sobering tug from inside. This strong knowing that I needed to make memories with my father however, whenever I had the chance. I needed to embrace moments that may not come again. That was a hard lesson to learn in those final months.
We didn’t mean to, but our family naturally fell into traditional gender roles growing up. I would spend more time at mom’s side helping clean the house and the set the table, while the boys tinkered in the garage or worked in the yard. For as alike as we were, dad and I didn’t have as much common ground to bond over. And when we’d spend time together, it was so often the whole four of us that there wasn’t much time alone just dad and I. It’s added this surprising, complicated layer to my grief – feeling like I had the least amount of time with him.
So that fourth of July, two years ago, I got up and walked down the hill – and with saying nothing, laid down next to him curling into his side. He didn’t say anything either. I just felt the comforting tug of his arm as he pulled me in closer, and laid my head on his shoulder.
For 20 minutes, we watched bright colors splash against a velvet canvas and never said a word. And when it was over, and everyone stood to go, we waited. Not this time to find parachutes at the edge of the dock, but because it was just really lovely.
A REKD GIRL 