Independence Day.
A day to celebrate our freedom.
And to lavish the day with reds, whites, and blues.
To come together, with family and friends, spending the day relaxing, chatting, and eating.

A tradition.

A tradition our family has always embraced, year after year. Rudy at the helm, taking charge, making sure the constant rhythm of music was vibrating throughout, adding to the festive environment, enhancing energy, and conversations. He especially made sure bellies were full with good home-cooked food, and plenty of drink.

Yester-Year, on a particular 4th of July, our family was missing that tradition.

And it felt ironic.

I did chat, eat, and drink with Roberto, and laughed loudly as he ran around the pool waving the American flag, before he had to head off to his afternoon shift in a non-American restaurant. Brad had spent the night with a friend, then had made plans to celebrate with said friend on that 4th day. And Liz, well, she was socializing, kicking back in London, preparing for her long flight home.

There I sat. Independently. In California.
And there Rudy sat. Independently. In Arkansas.
Each of us doing our own thing.
I was reading, writing, and lazily watching TV.
While he made himself a meal, and lounged on the couch, entertained by sports.

Independence Day.
Yester-Year.
Was.
A day to be independent.
To lavish the day with self.
To be alone.
To gather one’s thoughts. And listen as fireworks explode skyward.
A reminder of our county’s independence.
Independence of being free.