It’s Independence Day, and you think you should have something wise and patriotic to say, or perhaps all the pictures from all the fun and the parade and the root beer floats and the twirly ride at the carnival and the fireworks and all the things . . .
but somehow, it’s late, and you’re tired, and you know that this year’s story is just like the stories of years past, and that in a few more years these memories will be rolled up in a jumbled ball of messy, happy remembrance, and you won’t be able to figure out if that was the year with the pink elephants or the one where someone screamed the whole time during the fireworks.
And you know that someday your kids will tell their kids the stories, and somehow they’ll be more beautiful than they are now, still sticky and smelling like body odor and sunscreen and Deep Woods Off and someone’s drippy popsicle. And so you decide that, just this once, maybe you’ll keep some of the memories for your children’s rose-colored glasses, and just say this . . .
God bless America, land that I love.