Special 4th

To the editor:

This July 3rd, my daughter and I spent the night with my parents in my childhood home on South Beach. We reminisced about Fourth of July’s of old, when we kids would count out the change Dad had saved over the year for our parade-day pocket money. We would stack the pennies, nickels and dimes into paper rolls and divide them up so each of us had enough for the special things of the Fourth: the cardboard maze, dunk tank, cake walk, cotton candy or a snow-cone.

Maybe because we lost so much time with Mom and Dad—now 80—to COVID, or because every day counts more after last year’s lymphoma diagnosis, I really looked forward to this year’s Fourth.

We started with the Fun Run. My daughter sprinted off, and I immersed myself in a chuffing crowd, familiar hills, and the summer smells of blackberry blossoms and wild roses. Newly in remission, each breath seemed a bonus, and I inhaled deeply, sinking into the rhythm of the run. As I lost steam at the top of High School Road, another runner caught up and cheered me on, asking if I was OK. He told me to set the pace for the home stretch, and we ran in together.

My parents, daughter and dear friend were there at the end, and I basked in the moment, the feeling of a stranger’s kindness, the smiles of the people I love, the warmth and memories of my island home.

Jennifer Duncan