America the Beautiful

I did not expect to get misty-eyed and contemplative after watching a local community fireworks display with my family last night, but there I was in Simsbury, CT at the Talcott Mountain Music Festival, eyes wide and lips quivering, awash with patriotism and pride.

Maybe it was the kahlua heath crunch ice cream I was eating, combined with the way I felt leaning back into my husband's arms with our children nestled by our sides, but when the Hartford Symphony Orchestra performed "Stars and Stripes Forever" and fireworks began to illuminate the night sky, I couldn't help but think about how lucky we are.

I looked around at the sea of families who had ventured out to share this experience, the children with mouths agape, fingers pointing to the sky. I looked at the lush green grass, the tall trees, and the ridge in the distance. I listened to the collective oohs and ahhs as brilliant bursts of color exploded through the air.

I breathed it all in and tried to absorb it through every pore. I told myself in no uncertain terms: remember this moment.

"Mom," my son whispered, shielding his eyes after an especially bright burst of yellow erupted overhead, "why do we only have fireworks in July?"

I started to answer and ended up with a lump in my throat. "We have fireworks in July to celebrate Independence Day, the day our country became a separate, independent nation. Fireworks represent the bombs that exploded in the air during the war..." Oh brother. So much for my moment. Now my mind was flooded with images of muskets and boots with holes, torn flags, desert khakis, IEDs, blood, politics, and oil.

"So fireworks are bombs?" my son asked, intrigued.

I needed to have my moment back, so I shot my hand up in the air quicker than you could say I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy, and pointed at the streaks of blue that sparkled like fairy dust overhead.

"Ooooh!" I oozed, a little too loudly. "Look at that one! Wow!"

And ahhh. I had my moment back.