Independence Days

I remember days of independence held not to confines of calendar, but isolated, instead, to quadrants of memory clutched closely to chest.  Each anniversary is a celebration of them, an honorary tip of the hat to the significant place in history that they hold.  Not all are happy, not all are triumphant, but all are well-worn, battle-hardened, and a bit weary, sinking with a smile into a welcome embrace.
There were long summer nights as a child when the air was thick with humidity and the soil was verdant and deep.  The vines of mustang grapes clambored and wove a stealthy shade amongst live oaks and briars, and Saint Augustine knelt with deep respect to the shadowy respite from the sun amongst trails worn thin by barefooted children and old dogs.  Twilight was sung by whippoorwills, tree frogs, and katydids, and none of us could be stalwart in their swoon. 
There were many unseasonal campfires lit for the sole purpose of blistering hot dogs and marshmallows on old coat hangers while kids played with Black Cats, bottle rockets, and Roman candles in the red dirt driveway with claiche embankments.  These years were marked with particular benevolence, save for the sporadic murders of copperheads who snuck into home territory with lusty intentions toward she-serpents and malicious intent for bare feet and honest dogs.
These were the nights when teenaged girls pressed warm cheeks against the shoulders of high school linebackers on motorcycles and noticed knots of spider webs forming in pre-dawn blackberry brambles of fencerows along dusty county roads. 
Regretfully, there are memories of darts being thrown at patio parties where only lights and voices cut through the darkness that sank around a broken heart, cut and quartered within clear view of all there to see.
As life resurfaced in the desert, pregnant mamas climbed stairways with hopeful, unabashed toddlers, clinging to mama's hands in order to catch a glimpse of the magnificent views and startling spectacles. 
Roots deepened again as mama hid tears within shrugged shoulders and deflective elbows and guided her young ones through the Cowgirl Museum with a bewildered grandfather in tow.  These preceded the misnomer holiday when two people tried in vain to make silk from a sow's ear and paraded themselves forth with brave smiles.
Long came the next year, and the mama released her darlings beneath a brilliant sky in safe pastures lined with ice cream vendors.  The three ogled the beauty of exploding fire while keeping their secrets to themselves.  Each missed him, but they knew his prescence would lead to arguments and ruined evenings, so they were lonesome for him quietly, secretly, in their own way while grateful for the beautiful reprieve.
By the time the holiday came to pass again, they were packing their bags once more, hopeful for all that the future might hold.  When another year rolled past and found them here again, the pattern became evident, and a new appreciation for Independence Day was clear. 
Life will strain and worry.  Battles will be fought, won, and lost.  The valiant beauty of life will prevail and will also succumb at times.  The cycle will continue, and the brave heart will endure.  Each year that comes round again to hear that heart's story will be a moment to celebrate.
And so, with tears shed, scars healing, and hopes abound, I wish you a happy Independence Day, and I pray to meet again next year.