emma b. says

Friday, July 04, 2008

Mt. Tabor, July 4th, 2008

I suspect you might have secretly loved it, all the young men without hats and the girls barely dressed, there shrouded in the last vestiges of evening, drinking beer in cans under a sliver of a sliver of a moon, back lit in sulfur from the blasts of illegal fireworks, standing and sitting on the hillside over the city, and the city is alight in every neighborhood, whistles and explosions, fast and fiery colors bleeding into great gout's of stinking smoke, settling into the trees, seeping into pores, listing along the pavement a vengeful, diaphanous fog. Such a city taken with pyrotechnics, it's strange for us, contraband fireworks are difficult to obtain in California and we are collectively afraid of some snowy spark setting our land and houses ablaze.

My brother's eye's madly gleaming at the prospect of sorta blowing shit up, he gets that from our father, keeper of the cannon. But there is a little of your madness in both of us, that is your legacy.

You always liked spectacle, it's fitting that a Fourth of July baby would. I stood on the hillside and beheld, just beheld. There amongst people I love and am beginning to love, it was beautiful. I wish you could have lived well enough and long enough to see it and love it too.

* for Maurice Sheerer


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