july 4th

Here I am, here we are, standing beneath the same olden oaks and Spanish moss that have respired with Washington, and shaded Sherman’s conflagrations long enough to get him drunk on Chatham Artillery punch. They have heard the two hundred summers of mock cannon fire, and do they still shudder? Do we tremble together, you and me, and these thousands of oaken giants to hear the gunpowder concoctions glow vivid in midair? What of these 60,000 tourists, our cities guests, do they guess who once stood where their feet hold fast? Do we all bend an ear in timid anticipation and pause with widened eye to glint a flash of color from over rooftops? Do we forget the terror that the soldiers felt, at every firing, every combustion of that volatile brew? Like the foretold equestrians come to reap all that life has sown these cannon blazing brilliant in a near midnight sky seem a paltry semblance to all afore fallen, and my gaze is distracted by the near living at my side. Someone screams, “I was there, I felt the cannon’s roar”. The crowd around him laughs a moment, then, in unison returns their gaze to the blue and yellow detonations. Do we think, as surely they must have, “We Are Here! This moment is ours”. Another thunderous clap resounds above us. Ear splitting sound, after ear splitting sound and we stand in awe, together.
As other’s eyes stay fixed towards the proverbial fiery heavens, mine gazed lazily upon the throng. The sultry southern air carries all our breathing just below the falling gunpowder. In and out, soft and effortlessly. The scent of cheap cologne, wafts towards me, overpowering the sweat and beer, the gunpowder and magnolia blooms. The Marine in front of me, speedily purchased the last bottle available in an airport, moments before slipping out of one uniform and into another, the one that includes Dark Wash 505s, an ironed white polo and a consummating Ed Hardy baseball cap. He looks good and smells like a quick night waiting to happen. A moment of fervor, conjured and poised, frozen beneath a well-trained exterior. I cannot help but watch the way he holds his arms, crossed fastly against his chest, and his stance, the way his legs hold like defiant pillars amidst the din.
The smoke travels up and around us, through branches to a clear night sky, and beyond us all sits the moon. As she has for millennia, witness to us all, since the first.
The Vietnam Veteran is yelling again. This time I am the only one who hears. “I was holding his head as he drew his final breath. I watched them come over the hill. I see them everywhere. Every light, every slamming door, every blessed firework above our heads tonight, I can see him die.” You are standing next to me and as the finally starts, the air now thick beyond drawing breaths, you grab my hand, gently grasping at some ideal. The sound envelops all others, relinquishing the sense of hearing to preternatural realms. All that we see are the explosions in the sky. You mouth something and I look at your profile against the colors. I think I hear you. I think I hear the fireworks screaming an agonizing truth, “That was the sound of Jefferson’s heart”.
I look forward towards a clinking, clacking metal sound… The marine is reaching for the chain around his neck, an icon known nationwide, and in the light of the last explosion’s light, I see him, the well-camouflaged marine, lift his tags, his labels of U.S. property, to his lips and there they linger in a forgiving exchange.