Fourth of July.

I took Ray to a barbecue Saturday night in Falcon. Some people at work were throwing a party (very nice people, polite, congenial, the kind of people that actually make you feel at home after they stop telling you to make yourself at home) and invited us to come–I don’t normally go to that kind of thing, but they bribed me with fireworks. It went well, except for the part where all the roads listed on the directions were blocked off for the fireworks (the HOAs didn’t want people crawling around all over in their turfs, I guess), so I had to stop for alternate directions.

Last night we didn’t have any plans, so I took Ray out to the top of a nearby hill (the YMCA park) and we watched some more fireworks. This was different. Everything looked further away but sounded closer. You’d see a flash of light and start searching around for–and then you’d see another one. By the time you’d figured out what direction an explosion was coming from, all you’d see were trails of dying sparks. Echoes. Chaos. Hey. The subtext last night was “just be grateful this isn’t real, here, now.” I pushed Ray on a swing. I had to carry her all the way out and all the way back; she wouldn’t walk because she was too busy looking.