My father was born on the fourth of July. He maintained that he was at least five before he realized the fireworks weren’t for him, and that he was quite disappointed when he found out.
Had he lived, our plan last year was to head out to the beach, and to celebrate his birthday with banana splits. (He was on dialysis for over 15 years, and potassium was a serious issue, so banana splits were largely out-of-the-question.)
I hope to write a lot more about him this coming year. I miss him terribly but I’ve been really busy—something he would have appreciated.