When Memories Ignite More Than Fireworks

Where I’m from, the Fourth of July means more than red, white, and blue. It means family. It means laughter echoing off the porch at sundown. It means smoke swirling from the grill and fireworks lighting up the same wide sky as we all gaze at the sparks of the fireworks with childlike wonder.

My little brother, the grill master, or the soul of our feast, as I like to say. Nobody gets near that barbecue smoker unless they’re holding a plate. Ribs, hamburgers, smoked sausages, baked mac and cheese with that golden, crispy bacon top—he doesn’t just cook, he performs. My dad fried fish, and the golden complexion complemented the soulful taste. The food song is reminiscent of my childhood and brings back memories to me as I dug into my food.

The fireworks were my mother’s favorite part of the day. Every year, she’d grab her phone, ready to record, never sitting but standing with excitement. Even after all the cookouts, all the songs, all the summers—we knew the real grand finale wasn’t just above us; it was in the smiles of those around us. That’s what made it magic.

Now, with her gone, we keep that magic burning bright.

This year, my cousins took on the tradition. They went all out —big boxes, flashing fuses, the works. It’s as if they had turned back into barefoot kids, starry-eyed and wild with excitement. With all the different fireworks, it seems like they spent weeks picking out the best ones: fountains, rockets, those crackling silver bursts we all look up for. Come nightfall, my cousins are standing in my grandmother's yard ready to showcase the sparks. The smaller kids loved it. We caught the sparkle in their laughter and reflected the sparkle right back, squealing with delight as the night exploded with color. I swear, if joy ever had a sound, it would be their laughter under the sky ablaze.

Between mouthfuls and the music of the insects, we tell stories. We remembered Mama—the way she’d dance around in the kitchen, not physical dancing but how she moved from the counter to the stove making delicious meals, and the way she loved having us all under one roof. Her kind of comfort didn’t come from a store; it came from being together.

There’s something about my Southern family that runs deep. It’s in how we show up for each other. It’s in the extra scoop on your plate, the second hug before you leave, the porch light always left on to greet you home. It’s in the land, the winding roads, the way the stars stretch out above us like the memory of every summer we’ve ever shared.

Even without her here, my mother’s still the heart of our Fourth. She’s in the fireworks. She’s in the food. She is the source of laughter for my dad, my siblings, and my little family.

And every year, as we gather under the same old trees on the same old porch, I can still hear her say it with a full heart and that soft, beautiful smile:

“My cup runneth over.”

(Psalms 23:5)

That was her way of saying, “This is love”. And we’ll keep living it, year after year.

So, from our family to yours, Happy Fourth of July. May your skies be bright, your plates be full, and your cup forever overflowing.

Fireworks & Family Ties: A Fourth of July to Remember

When Memories Ignite More Than Fireworks

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