4th of July, mother drags me out to celebrate my dependence on her, or maybe her independence from me, I'm not sure. She's not drunk but looks at the fireworks like a child, like they really meant something to her. They did to me too, once, but then I grew up and the world around me changed into something I had trouble understanding.
We used to go out, the three of us, hand in hand and just be quiet. The sky above us would explode and I remember feeling immensely liberated and hopeful. My father would squeeze my hand, so lightly it was barely noticeable, but it always meant that everything would be all right in the end.
And now it seems like a fairytale, slowly evaporating from my memory like the ideals we once held as sacred. Nothing makes me more afraid than the thought of forgetting, nothing more sad than seeing what has become of the dreams we once shared.