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Independence Day by Oona Lewis

Independence Day

by Oona Lewis

For you, I gathered the flags and ribbons, the old ceramic Paul Revere and patriot 

figurines and nestled them amid the red-starred fabric draped in the center of the picnic table. I 

pictured your hands clasped in child-like delight. You adore a festive table. A salty ocean breeze 

fluttered my striped napkins and place cards. Lovely. Of course girls would sit at red plates, boys 

at blue. We’d all enjoy my pork-n-beans, your father’s hamburgers and pleasant conversation.

Your cousins arrived early. You, my beloved daughter, my only child—you were late. 

You glanced at my beautiful table-scape but wouldn’t see. You declared independence from my 

place cards and sat at a blue plate, your new husband at a red.

“We brought our own food. We’re vegans now,” you said.

“Is that healthy?” I said. Of course not. Your father touched my back then, and again 

when I asked why you must leave in the morning. Your pinch-lipped sigh, the sideways glance at 

your husband...they blew a hole through my center, big as a musket ball.

“Peach cobbler and ice cream for dessert.” I made my voice bright. “Your favorite.”

“Thank you Mother, but we don’t eat dairy.” You turned away.

Later, in the dark, you didn’t see me or the orange glow of my cigarette. You stood at the 

porch rail, your beautiful face awash with the light of fireworks. The wind whipped your hair. I 

stepped toward you. Then your husband appeared. He tucked a curly strand behind your ear, a 

slow, sure movement. You lifted your face to his. 

I backed into the darkness and watched your happiness, soaring freely beyond my reach.

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