The Writing Of Rebecca Bones

Most people think of fireworks when they think of the Fourth of July.
Loud bursts of color. Laughter drifting through warm summer air. The smell of grills and the glow of sparklers in the hands of kids who don’t yet know how fragile things can be. For me, it’s different.
The Fourth of July is the day one if my closest friends died.
It was a motorcycle accident—sudden, violent, and final in a way that never quite makes sense, no matter how many years pass. There was no warning, no time to prepare, no moment where the world slowed down and gave us a chance to say goodbye. Just a silence that has never really gone away.
Grief doesn’t stay loud forever. It changes. In the beginning, it crashes over you in waves — unpredictable, overwhelming. But over time, it settles into something quieter. Not smaller, just… woven differently into everything.
Now it shows up in strange ways.
In the middle of a joke I wish I could share with them. In a song that hits a little harder than it should. In moments where I instinctively reach for my phone before remembering there’s no one on the other end.
And every year, when the sky lights up, I don’t just see fireworks. I see the last day they were here.
People say time heals. I don’t know if that’s entirely true. Time doesn’t erase anything. Time just teaches you how to carry it. How to keep moving forward while holding onto something that will always be part of you.
Grief is a reflection of love. You don’t lose it when someone is gone. It just changes shape.
I still talk to them sometimes. Not out loud, always, but in thoughts, in quiet moments. I still laugh at memories. I still feel the weight of what’s missing. Both things exist at the same time.
So when the Fourth of July comes around, I don’t try to push it away. I let it be both things. A day of celebration for the world, and a day of remembrance for me. A sky full of light and a reminder of someone who should still be here to see it.
And maybe that’s the closest thing to peace I’ve found. It’s okay for joy and grief to share the same space. Because that love doesn’t end it just has to live differently now.