July of That Year

The first thing I knew about you 
was that you were dying.
The cancer preceded you
and I wonder if you were jealous of the way
it swelled and took up so much space,
how it announced itself so loudly,
how it made itself so at home.
On your last Independence Day,
it is one of the final times 
you are able to get out of your chair.
We set you up in the driveway
while the neighborhood kids shoot off fireworks
a little too close and you laugh 
at the way I jump, startled every time
a crackling burst fills the sky,
even though I see it coming.

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