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.

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 of my closest friends died.

It was a motorcycle accident.

Sudden.
Violent.
Final in a way that never really 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 never really left.

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 into everything.

Now it shows up in unexpected ways.

In the middle of a joke I wish I could share with them.

In a song that hits harder than it should.

In moments where I 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 true.

Time doesn’t erase anything.

It just teaches you how to carry it.

How to keep moving forward
while holding onto something
that never really leaves.

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 always out loud.

But in thoughts.
In quiet moments.

I still laugh at memories.

I still feel the weight of what’s missing.

Both 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.

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 lives differently now.

(I learned how to carry the loss, but I never stopped wishing they were still here to see it with me. RIP Spike.)