A Storyteller's Tale - The Fourth at Three Rivers

It was Fourth of July, 2009. I was with my family on the South Side of Pittsburgh celebrating my parent’s wedding anniversary.

Earlier that day, we collectively decided that we were in the mood for Spanish cuisine. Though it wasn’t much of an “American thing to do” on the Fourth of July, it was symbolic of our gratitude to live in freedom as an ethnic family—first-generation immigrants from Italy.

Personally, I felt it celebratory that we’d spend this day enjoying the food of another culture that also shared our country’s freedom. Barring any tragedy, nothing could ruin the spirit and joy I felt on Independence Day each year. The holiday marked colorful and vibrant memories of family celebrations, each catalogued in my mind with vivid detail and clarity.

After a bunch of Sangria on the patio of the Mallorca Restaurant, I ordered the Zarzuela de Moriscos and ate only a third. I was dressed up and didn’t want to feel uncomfortable in the sundress that I bought for the evening.

The taste of the shellfish stew was still fresh on my palate, leaving a bold, visceral effect on me. Leaning down to smell the contents of the bowl still brimming with scallops, mussels, shrimp, and clams, I could feel the warmth of its steam reach towards me. This dish seemed slightly reminiscent of the French bouillabaisse that my husband sometimes made for me at home, but the chorizo, cured pork, peppers, and tomatoes made the taste much more palpable and rustic. On this day, the dish helped me connect to my European roots.

My family was still finishing their meals when I asked the server in a whisper if I could have an after dinner drink. I gave him a sly smile. His head tilted towards mine as he listened. He knelt down, smiled, politely asked if he could select just the right one, and explained, “This way we don’t have to make too much of a fuss for others to notice.”

Observant, he knew my smile meant yes, and he simply nodded and went off to get my selected liqueur. I decided I liked him and I thought to myself that I should aspire to make enough money to eat at a place like this as much as I wanted.

I turned and reconnected with the conversation at the table. My cousin was exclaiming, “I cannot believe they made it even one year. I mean, all of us knew it. He was probably cheating on her before they even got married.”

Already bored, I shifted and looked into the kitchen, thinking about many things at once. How many chefs did they have here? Does this location get enough clientele on weekdays during lunch? Are there any female servers on staff at a fine dining Spanish restaurant? I only see men.

There was a touch on my shoulder. Paul was smiling as I came out of my thoughts. “I see you ordered another drink,” he said in a lowered voice. I looked up to find my waiter holding my liqueur. “Senora. I hope this is OK. Bodegas Santo Cristo Ainzon Muscatel Licor is the one I chose. I looked at him and told him I was sure it was more than perfect. He gently placed it down and out of view from most of the table.

Happy that I now had something to attend to other than the discussion, I looked around again and sipped on my fresh drink. Within a short time, I had that lovely, warm, sleepy feeling one feels after the perfect amount of food and drink.

My surroundings mesmerized me. The sound of glasses and silverware clinking, the hum of hushed talking, and the vision of all waiters serving all tables at once with timing and attentiveness that seemed like perfection.

It was about seven o’clock at night. I excused myself from the table, nobody seeming to pay attention. The outdoor patio looked inviting, so I went out with a glass of water and sat in the scorching July sun.

The patio had cleared when the dinner crowd opted for air conditioning, so I sat alone. Unlike most hot days in Pittsburgh, there was little humidity. I nestled in the patio chair, closed my eyes for a moment, and enjoyed the dry heat on my shoulders.

My mind and body buzzed. Every physical sensation was perfect except that I couldn’t ignore how the straps of my sandals were tugging at the back of my ankles. Knowing that nobody could see under the table, I slipped off my shoes and daydreamed about visiting Spain.

Within moments, I discredited the thought, and I turned to look into the window of the restaurant. My family made up the largest table, and they were definitely a rowdy bunch, all gesturing with exaggerated expressions. It was nice to take them in this way, with the exterior wall keeping them silenced for a moment, keeping their liveliness untouched. Hmm… I was lucky, I thought. My family was everything to me.

Just earlier, the entire family was in the dining room at my childhood home on Armstrong Drive. Aunt Dee was over and she brought a box of perfectly made Nevole along with her entire Marino family clan. The cookies were divine, and the family was, well, something to experience.

As usual, I sat off away from the crowd, again choosing to be the observer. Like the many times when I looked at my family from a distance, I remember thinking that I should catalog that moment of time in my mind for the future. I was wise enough to know that the times with my family were sacred, yet, somehow, I did not know how to be anything other than the one who stepped away to tell the story.

While looking on, I sampled the Nevole. The taste of citrus and grape went perfectly with coffee and the sensation helped me solidify the memories of that day in my mind.

The family was playing poker and enjoying drinks and sweets. Mom made sure nobody ran out of wine or coffee and Dad never once stopped talking. The sound of the group swelled with loud laughter, silenced for a bit while my father took too long to play his card, and then roared with screams when Lisa cleared the table of all of its money. Enamored by the vision of my family’s shared love, I closed my eyes just to listen to them.

My eyes were closed when my Mom suddenly called my name. I opened my eyes to see a line of cars piled up on Carson Street. I was back at Mallorca and drowsy from my nap in the sun. “Catherine! I was wondering where the hell you were! We’ve got to go! The traffic is getting bad heading to Station Square.”

I looked around for a moment and she asked incredulously, “Were you sleeping? Be with your family! Everyone is wondering where you are.” I nodded and told her I’d be in a second, that I just had to put my shoes back on. She rolled her eyes and shot me a loving, motherly gaze, turned and quickly rushed back to the others. My stomach felt a sense of uneasiness for a moment as the quick thought passed through my mind that my mother wouldn’t always be alive.

Feeling I had been away for a bit too long, I quickly slipped on my sandals and noticed with annoyance that the straps were tugging yet again. It mattered little. The day was near perfect so far. As I re-entered the restaurant, my body felt a sense of total ease. The brief rest had quelled some of my buzz and I was more energized, especially now with the cool temperature inside the restaurant.

All family members were standing and getting ready to leave when I reached them. Paul greeted me with a hug, yawned, and whispered in my ear, “Your mother thought something was wrong. All OK?”

I giggled, snuck out of his arms, and went up and pinched my mom’s face and said “Mia Momma! Always worried!” Paul gave me a familiar look, rolled his eyes and said in his low voice, “Catherine, you have such a big mouth.” I giggled again and asked loudly, “Did they fight over the bill and throw money around like a bunch of crazy Italian people? Oooh, I’m glad I missed that scene. I cannot let the waiters know I’m with you all… they are all too good looking.”

Mind shifting attention quickly, I said to Paul, “What do you think about going to Spain?” He laughed and said, “Why? Because all the men will look like these handsome waiters?” “Yes,” I announced and added, “And not to mention I’d finally be able to be topless on a beach!” My mother, looking to see if the server heard me as he lifted the tip from the table, said, “Oh, Catherine… Get going” and gently put her hand on my lower back, nudging me toward the others.

Feeling happy and silly, I looked at my sister and said that we should go to the ladies’ room before we go and say our goodbyes to the handsome fellas along the way. “Better yet,” I added in a louder voice so that Paul and Greg would hear, “We’ll go to Spain just the two of us sisters and leave our husbands behind.” Lisa grabbed me by the hand, giggled, and pulled me towards the restroom. She smiled coyly over her shoulder at Greg, her husband, and replied, “Agreed. Hmm. Sisters in Spain. God, we’ll never return!”

Our clan grouped, dispersed, and regathered as the several of us walked down Carson Street towards our parked cars. As we disconnected into groups for the three separate cars, I whispered to my husband that we should ride in Greg’s Jeep, explaining that it would be nice to have the top down to feel the outside air and see all the sights of the South Side.

My mom took my hand and exclaimed, “I am riding with you” until I explained it was just gonna be the younger generation riding together. It was rare for Paul and me to have some alone time with Lisa and Greg.

As we rode towards Station Square, we all chatted about how lucky we were to be in Pittsburgh for fireworks. If you want to celebrate the Fourth of July with the best pyrotechnics, you must go to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh is home of the Zambelli family, the creators of the infamous Zambelli Fireworks that have lit up the skies around the world.

When we reached Station Square, the parking areas were almost all taken. Drivers swarmed around trying to out-race each other to capture a spot. Greg decided to just take a stop in an aisle and wait for someone to leave, explaining that there was more of a mathematical chance for us to land a parking slot if we waited in one spot rather than driving around.

In about 10 minutes, a fella who looked like he stepped out of the 80’s got in his white Lincoln Town Car and pulled out. We all chucked at his attire: dress pants, penny loafers, and his collar up. Paying attention to him, we lost focus on the parking spot for a bit. A woman in her silver BMW convertible jolted in front of us and tried to swerve to pull in, at which point Greg laid on the car horn, swore, “Sweet Mother of God! You don’t think this is actually going to happen, do you!?” and lifted his hands in the air to indicate to her he wondered what the hell she was doing. Flipping Greg the bird, she screeched her car out of the position and headed up the ramp of the parking lot and away from us.

Greg pulled in the spot quickly, hit the brakes harder than we all expected, and turned the car off suddenly. We all jolted forward and back a bit with the abrupt stop, and Lisa exclaimed, “Seriously, Greg. Was that necessary?” She then reapplied her lipstick, not needed a mirror to do so.

I pulled out my make-up powder to look in the compact mirror and addressed the fact that my hair looked like a bird’s nest from the wind. Complaining that it would not look good for the rest of the night, Paul stated, “Catherine… You look beautiful. You always do.” Feeling loved, I explained, “Paul, you would say that even if I looked horrible. You say that just because you love me,” and I kissed him on the cheek and reached up to fix his wind-blown hair.

We laboriously climbed out of the Jeep, a bit cramped from the ride. Greg held out his hand to help Lisa and me out and I reminded him he was always a gentleman, and then turned to give Paul a wink of the eye. Paul gave Greg a jovial slap on the shoulder as he jumped out of the Jeep and said, “Hey, man. Always outdoing me, huh? I see how it is.” Greg laughed and said, “Hey. It’s just natural. I was born able to please the ladies,” at which point Lisa rolled her eyes and said, “That’s my husband for ya. Dear Lord.”

We looked around for the rest of the family and realized we could hear them coming. Mom, as usual, was talking loudly and laughing her boisterous laugh. As they came into sight, I heard Mom turn her attention to her sister and say, “C’mon Dee. It isn’t that far. You’ll be glad we went.” Aunt Dee had a slight limp, stopping infrequently to rub her painful knee.

“Aunt Diamante!” I called out. “Come here! You can lean on me while we walk!” She came closer to me, gave me a big, Italian kiss and exclaimed with her part Italian accent and part Pittsburghese, “Catty – you always so sweet. Where d’ja get ta be so nice?! You a good girl” and put her arms around me for my support.

As soon as we exited the parking lot building and got onto a sidewalk, I slipped off my sandals, deciding to walk barefoot. “Catherine, what the hell are you doing?” Paul asked and my Mom added, “Catherine, you will step on glass or something. Put your shoes back on. This isn’t the right place to be without shoes.” I explained that I’d be careful and watch where I was walking and then disregarded them as they added more complaints about my choice.

Feeling adventurous, I tiptoed and pranced a bit, taking Aunt Dee away from our group through a circuitous route, knowing we’d meet up with the clan in time. I had to walk on the cement versus the asphalt, which was much hotter on my feet. Aunt Dee asked how I could walk like this with no shoes and I explained that my years of ballet and modern dance caused permanent callouses on my feet. “I can walk just about anywhere with no shoes,” I explained and added, “It makes me feel more alive, really. Kinda like how I love to eat with my hands. We did that when I lived in the Philippines and it engages more of your senses, somehow bringing the experience to life.” “Mmm hmph” my aunt nodded, as if agreeing, obviously not getting what I was trying to express.

Somehow, the two of us got lost in the restaurants, leaving the rest of the family far off somewhere. I knew we were supposed to meet up with Greg’s parents and brother in front of Buca di Beppo, so we headed towards that direction in a wayward fashion, laughing and gossiping on the way about the slutty night-out-on-the-town clothes the young girls were wearing. “They are too young. Too young,” Aunt Dee said with disapproval. I pointed out that she, my mom, and Aunt Dell were rather risque in their own day. “It is just a phase,” I explained.

We passed by the ornate Station Square fountain. We paid little attention to display despite its changing lights. The loud splashes of water formed a variety of changing arches and spurted out like a synchronized dance. As we moved down the path, we looked like a funny pair—Aunt Dee limping a bit and leaning on me and me walking on tiptoe, making sure I did an equal number of steps on each stone paver.

As we rounded a corner, I pulled Aunt Dee closer and said, “Let’s skip!” Ever since I was a child, my dad announced the same thing when we walked together and I had carried on the tradition. She laughed and exclaimed, “You gotta be kiddin’!” I skipped away from her, forcing her arm to slip out from around my waist and pulling outward to where we were holding hands and looking at each other as if doing a dance.

I barely noticed that I had led the both of us in front of a Polynesian style bar with a bunch of onlookers. It was a quaint outside bar with tiki torches and waiters and waitresses wearing matching shirts with print of bright pink and yellow flowers. Men and women in their 30’s and 40’s decorated the bar, sipping on their Mojitos, Cosmopolitans, and martinis as they sat under a fake thatch overhang. I thought to myself that it would be a perfect night for drinking at an outdoor bar with Paul. I should steal him away later and disjoin from the family at some point.

Scanning the people at the bar, my eyes fell on a smart and stylish fellow. He was wearing jeans, cuffed at the bottom, with a button down, bright white shirt that had small tortoise shell buttons and a cobalt blue inner lining around the collar, with matching blue wrist cuffs. His slight tan, tortoise shell round glasses, and dark brown hair appealed to me. I realized much too late that I had been studying him for so long that he noticed. He raised his dirty martini and his lips formed a slight smile and we caught each other’s gaze for a moment.

Musing for a moment about what it would be like if I weren’t married, I failed to realize that I was still in a silly semi dance pose with Aunt Dee. Suddenly aware of my awkward stance and foolish behavior, I made most of the situation. So, I rolled into my own arm, then curling into Aunt Dee's, leaned back as if Aunt Dee was “dipping me” in our little dance, and rolled back out and took a curtsy.

Thinking I’d either receive a slight applause or I’d find folks rolling their eyes, I found the young fellow looking at me over his martini with a pensive seriousness that suggested that he was now studying me in a manner that was unusual to me.

Surprised to find that I had a fluttering feeling in my stomach and fleeting thoughts of what it would be like to be alone with this man, I decidedly turned to Aunt Dee and announced that we should really hurry on to meet the family.

Making way down a short cobblestone path area and turning left, we ended up smack in front of Buca di Beppo and ran right into the middle of my family group. “Where the hell were you two?” my mother said curtly. I could tell she was annoyed. “We took the path less trodden,” I stated, always the instigator.

“Seriously. We were worried about you. Thank God you are finally with us. Stay with us for the rest of the time, please.” Mom spoke with seriousness and I noticed her lips had formed a hard line and her eyes had a sort of begging expression on them. I suddenly felt bad. I looked at her in the eyes and expressed, “Mom, I am sorry. I honestly didn’t realize we were away for all that long… I promise we’ll stick with you. I feel bad you were worried.” She looked tired, and I guessed she had gone to great lengths to sustain everyone’s happiness that evening. Again, I took her in and thought about how much I loved her.

Dad came up, put his arm around me, squeezed a bit too tight for a second and shook me a bit. He said, “Hey, Cath – Kitty Cat Cathy – How ya doin’? I haven’t seen you in a while. Did you head off somewhere?” Before I could answer, Paul called out, “Yup” and added, “You know your daughter.” Dad kissed me on the cheek and said, “Yes, I do.” I knew this meant both that he knew me well and also that he loved me entirely. I felt truly blessed.

“OK folks! Let’s get a move on,” Dad announced, “We won’t get a spot on the bridge if we don’t speed this up a bit.” Greg’s mom, Patricia, and my mom were in a deep conversation about which products they both use to color their hair, so I put my hands on their shoulders and said we were all going to walk.

“Hi, sweetie!” Pat said, “You look just fab-u-lous. I loove that sundress! So artsy and colorful!” I thanked her and suggested we walk and talk at the same time. As we walked toward the bridge, I asked Patricia how it was going at her school. She was a principal at a Catholic middle school and I admired her out-of-the-box approach to education. Everything for her was out of the box. Everything. It had never been in the box in the first place.

She explained that everyone at her school was encouraged to explore the full spectrum personal self-expression with what they wear to school. “I do not support school uniforms, you see,” she explained, “Except, my kiddos are not allowed to have tattoos, piercings, or dyed black hair… You know what I mean… that Goth look.” The word “Goth” came out of her lips with a whisper, as if it were something one should not utter outright. I knew she was trying to be an instigator. Both of us clearly remembered my own Goth days when I wore corsets, high laced up leather boots, and short plaid skirts. Patricia clearly indicated long ago that she was not in favor of my attire in those days, often announcing that it suggests I worship the devil or something.

“You cannot promote self-expression and then give it limits,” I explained with frustration. “Anyway, I find tattoos sexy. Mmmm… and tongue piercings…Mm hmm… they are definitely fun for certain things.” I decided that we could provoke each other equally if the conversation was going to go in this direction.

Soon enough, though, I redirected myself. I inspected her with her wild layers of clothes, a long-sleeve top layered above a flowing skirt with wide, draping pants underneath, each layer with its own abstract design. I looked up at her short hair spiking up in a bright pink color and reminded myself that I really found Patricia wonderful. She was as audacious and crazy as me and I loved it. “Just joking,” I said as a way of getting onto better ground and then stated, “Anyhow, let’s catch up with Jim. I haven’t seen him in too long!” and pulled her towards her husband.

The whole time we headed to the Smithfield Street Bridge, the bridge that crosses the Monongahela River, connecting Station Square to downtown Pittsburgh. Jim, Greg’s father, was an engineer of bridges and he, like me, found this the most fascinating of all the 446 bridges in Pittsburgh.

Pittsburgh is sometimes called “The City of Bridges” and though it is hard to determine a favorite, this particularly bridge was an architectural feat. Made of arched steel and wrought iron, the bridge had a curvilinear form with the top arches making a figure 8. Its architectural style was called a lenticular truss, meaning that most of the load bearing components of the bridge made a truss—triangular parts to make the whole. That was the most of my understanding of it, but I knew it was aesthetically pleasing to me, a sort of metal, abstract installation piece of art floating above water.

As we walked toward the bridge, I asked Jim what he found so interesting about the bridge. He explained to me that there is no truss bridge like it. “This one is like a kaleidoscope to me,” he explained. When you look at the bridge from different angles, the triangular parts all circle outward in a way that is, well, kinda mesmerizing… So, it sorta makes a convex lens curved pattern… I don’t really know how to explain it.” “That’s not to mention,” adding to his explanation, “a truss bridge is the most economical kind of bridge one can design and this bridge is the longest truss in the States.” He added a bunch of historical and architectural facts that went over my head, only because the bridge was in sight and I was moving my visual vantage point around to see the kaleidoscopic effects.

A series of stairs that led up to the bridge from where we were, climbing about 3 flights high. Dad asked if I wanted to race him to the top and I conceded, holding the bottom of my sun dress up to allow me to take full steps, two at a time. Dad, of course, beat me by far and I reached the top, laughing and out of breath, falling into my daddy’s arms for a sweaty hug.

Yes, this day was glorious. I could not ask for a better family.

The rest of the group slowly climbed upward, with Aunt Dee, Lisa, and Paul falling way behind, all climbing slowly and awkwardly and stepping up while locked arm in arm with each other. When the whole group got top of the stairs, we looked around to find a spot clear of people that could fit our entire group. The bridge was filling up quickly. This was a prime spot to see the fireworks. Seeing the sizeable crowd, Mom fidgeted about, asking folks if they would slide down so we could fit everyone until Lisa intervened and explained that it was ok if we split up a bit.

For the second time in the day, I felt that perfect sense of ease wash over me. I looked out over the three rivers at The Point where the two rivers fed into the third. The city was so beautifully lit as it was that night. A cool breeze passed over the water and up through the bridge, carrying a faint smell of fish and exhaust from the cars that were passing by.

I could hear someone’s radio playing Lester Young’s “These Foolish Things” off in the distance and the jazz circled and danced in the evening air towards us, becoming louder the more I paid attention to it. I asked Paul if he could hear it and asked him to dance with me.

“Let’s go closer. We can hear it better that way,” he said. I was surprised. Such a concession to dance was rare. As we drew near the couple with the radio, the song switched over, and the sound of Stan Getz’ “Detour Ahead” surrounded us. Paul put his hand out and said, “May I?” I, of course, took his hand and we danced slowly in tiny circles, confined on the small walkway that was lined by the road on one side and the handrail on the other.

The couple was sitting on a blanket, feet pushed through the bars of the bridge and dangling high above the water. They looked at us, smiling. When the song ended, I hugged Paul and thought of how much I truly loved being married to him. The couple cheered, “Bravo! Bravo!” and we thanked them for providing such lovely music to accompany this great evening.

We walked, hand-in-hand, back to the general area where my family found their spots for the fireworks. Paul kissed me and told me he loved me, proceeding to move away to chat with Julia a bit. As he talked to my niece, he took a small strand of her hair and pushed it away from her face lovingly. Even though it was dark, I could see his love for her in the way he gestured and held her hand as they talked.

I looked around and found that I was standing there in between Greg and his father, both of whom were looking out towards the city, lost in thought. I thought to myself that this was a kind of moment that is mostly be shared by men … two guys, each standing with their feet slightly apart, hands pushed casually down into their pockets, both looking outward rather than facing each other. It was a shared moment, so I stayed quiet.

After about a minute, Jim placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and said in a deep tone, “Perfect time for a stogie, huh?” Greg, still looking off, stated, “Yes, indeed. Indeed.” Jim, looking toward Pat and the others, pulled a cigar out of his pocket just far enough so we would see. Greg said, “Say! I knew you’d come through, Dad!” and they walked off, each with their own cigar in hand.

I was standing alone when a sudden barrage of motorcycles entered onto the bridge on the side that was further away from us. Not expecting this, I jumped a little and turned my body around to look. The bikers were coming down the bridge quickly and I could see the line of motorcycles continued to where I could not see an end to it.

Soon enough, they were rushing past me. They adorned most bikes with smallish American flags flapping violently from the back of the seat and I realized they were Veterans, many of them wearing assorted military items or T-shirts that showed that they were a prisoner of war. A handful of women rode with the men, hanging on the driver, clad in leather, some with a matching bandana. The women were smiling, but most of the men carried a weighted expression, partly showing pride, mostly showing pain.

The bikes were mostly Harley’s, of course, and they were loud as hell. I could feel the rumbling of these impressive bikes deep within and the rhythm and sound overwhelmed. Looking at this litany of Veteran bikers, thinking of all they had been through, remembering the importance of this day, tears came to my eyes. The line of bikes seemed to be never ending and the sight and sound of them was astonishing. Moved, I joined the rest of the onlookers as we all applauded and cheered on the Veterans as they moved past. It seemed as if we were clapping and cheering for a very long time.

Then, suddenly, the bikes were gone, and they buzzed in the distance until they finally reached up and over the hill, leaving behind a silence that was unsettling. Feeling the weight of their exit, I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. I could feel the air move through me, going from my stomach to my rib cage and finally filling up my chest. I held it here a moment and said a silent prayer for all of our military men and women, past and present. When I opened my eyes, I noticed Greg was standing beside me. I reached out and held his hand, saying, “Greg… Thank you for what you do.”

Greg was Captain in the Navy, a Veteran himself. He was married to my sister for most of his military career and I knew first-hand how much sacrifice he had experienced in the name of his fellow countrymen and women. We stood holding hands, looking outward past the city, and he said humbly, “Thanks, Cath. That means a lot to me.”

The sky was a dark greyish blue, lit up by the city lights. It was about ten o’clock and the fireworks were soon to start. Almost everyone was hushed in anticipation and the quiet this time was now calm, peaceful, reverent. “Hey, Cath,” Greg whispered, “Look up.” His voice had a trace of emotion to it.

I looked up and found the most amazing vision I had seen in a long while. A helicopter with a propeller on both of its side was slowly moving across the sky from the South, over Station Square, and away from the bridge towards the city at large. It carried beneath it the largest American flag I had ever seen, hanging from the star side on both of the two corners so it fell like in the shape of a long rectangle down towards the water. From somewhere off in the distance, a spotlight lit both the large aircraft and the flag in the night sky.

“That’s called a Sea Knight,” Greg explained quietly, so that only I could hear. “Believe it not, that bird is the same helo I flew in my day… an H-46. God, what a beautiful bird,” voice trailing off as if there was so much more to say. It seemed as if the entire city knew the importance of silence. We all stood collectively watching with awe as the helicopter advanced majestically through the sky, flag billowing below it, with its white stripes nearly translucent from the spotlight. One could be nothing but solemn and reflective in those several, long, still, and soundless minutes that passed. I was, literally, speechless… not only because I should not speak, but also because I would not have been able to put my thoughts into words.

I put my arm around Greg’s waist, held him closer, and told him how much I loved him. He held me back and stated with seriousness, “You know, Cath, independence and freedom are sacred, not obtained or sustained without continuous effort and attention. I don’t want you to ever forget that.” The comment hung in the air and filled my mind until I could finally wrap my mind around the truth of his instruction.

The rest of the night was just as magical. The fireworks were, of course, spectacular. They painted the night sky with bright reds, blues, greens, and purple like aerial comets, chrysanthemums on fire, and showers of light streams. Rapid crackles popped and whizzed amidst diadems of color. Bright twinkling points of glitter reflected in the eyes of all onlookers, all dazed by the wild array of colored fire and explosions that filled the night.

And then started the finale. Layers of light fountains and color wheels sparked above the city, dozens of stars expanded and dispersed at once while rockets and pinwheels buzzed and whistled, all punctuated by the many sonic booms of the loud salutes that clamored into the core of our bodies with thuds of reverberation. The smoke, smelling like gunpowder and sulfur, was so strong that we could taste it and it filled in and around all the crevices between me, my family members, and all others.

I closed my eyes, wanting to record the evening in a split second and within moments, it was over. A light applause rose into loud cheers and whistles as we all looked around at each other with a sense of gratitude for the shared pleasure and exhilaration.

I looked over and saw that Greg had his eyes closed, standing there while the crowd jostled and butted about him. I took his hand and said, “Greg, I never will forget this night. It was truly incredible.” He opened his eyes, looked at me with a steady, fixed gaze, and stated, “If only we could have somehow recorded this day with our family, huh? I wish I could somehow bottle up today’s events, today’s thoughts, and today’s feelings.” He looked off and then back at me, smiled, and said, “I suppose some things are best to just experience. I don’t think one could actually put today into words.”

I grabbed his hand, and we walked to join the rest of the family. Looking toward the incline that seemed to carry my thoughts and aspirations up and into the night sky, I silently promised myself to record this evening. I would someday be the one to tell the story.

Resolute and fulfilled, I knew that the day I’d tell the story would come in its own time… the day I would share the story about my love for my family, about my connection with my home city, and about what it was like to be free in the United States on the night that Sea Knight hung in the night air on the Fourth of July in 2009.