enthusiasm is contagious

Tumbleweed of Independence Day,  detritus. I see summertime all around me. We celebrated our country by watching explosions in the sky the weekend before at a center for the dying. I did not eat a hamburger. I enjoyed the raindrops, I speculated that this might not be a bad place to take last breaths, this harbor in Branford, I looked around and thought about Fredrick Law Olmsted, whose pop bought him a farm not far from where we sat, full of watermelon and individually packaged cookies. I felt funny about being an American, and then we drove to a diner and ate Greek food.

The day after the official day, July 5, I was at the beach looking at the scattershot remains of fireworks. Bits of cardboard and the rest. I wonder what it is about fireworks that says Independence, exactly. Exports from China, bright lights and big noises. I replaced the rubber part of my toilet and struggled to find anything in the big box store made in the USA. Then I played volleyball and stared at my fellow americans, so unastonished by what it means to be alive they were watching COPS on television. Outside we were declaring our independence from England by exploding things in the sky. I made a lot of thematic food items, to celebrate. A friend said, “You are only 11% as old as America,” and this, at least, made me feel patriotic for a moment.