Independence Day

by Patti Jazanoski

By spring we’d grown tired of reading about the war. It had been three years already, more than two years since Mission Accomplished, yet people were still shooting. Some said Iraq was on the brink of civil war.

In the morning we sipped our coffee, turned the pages of the Chronicle, and skimmed the other headlines.

“The rain’s not over for us,” I said.

My wife, Mandy, nodded. “Mudslides in Bangladesh.” We mailed a check to help with food relief.

Then the papers piled up at the bottom of the driveway.

Mandy asked, “Is it time for the beach?”

We rented a cottage for the summer and stopped thinking about the war.

As we walked on the sand, the water lapped over our toes.

“Isn’t this better?” Mandy asked, taking my hand.

Standing at the edge of the open sea, my worries drifted away. I reached for her.

“Race you back to the cottage,” she said. I followed.

We hadn’t begun to have children yet because we still had time. I was raised to believe that we’d always have time, as we always believed we’d have money.

Friends from the city—Brenda and Jack—came for the Fourth of July. They brought wine, a loaf of sweet, crusty bread, fashion magazines and their laughter. At night we carried the slouched wooden chairs from our porch to the beach, and watched the fireworks shoot from the sand.

“All the explosions and the smoke….” Brenda said. “It reminds me of a war.”

“Watch this,” Mandy said. “If I reach my arm out, it looks like the fireworks are exploding in my hand, but they never do a thing to me.”

Jack laughed. “You’re invisible.”

Mandy was. All of us were, sitting on that beach so far away from the world.

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Patti Jazanoski is a graduate of the Creative Writing program at the University of California Santa Cruz. Her work has appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Opium Magazine and elsewhere.


	Independence Day by Patti Jazanoski By spring we’d grown tired of reading about the war. It had been three years already, more than two years since Mission Accomplished, yet people were still shooting. Some said Iraq was on the brink of civil war. In the morning we sipped our coffee, turned the pages of the Chronicle, and skimmed the other headlines. “The rain’s not over for us,” I said. My wife, Mandy, nodded. “Mudslides in Bangladesh.” We mailed a check to help with food relief. Then the papers piled up at the bottom of the driveway. Mandy asked, “Is it time for the beach?” We rented a cottage for the summer and stopped thinking about the war. As we walked on the sand, the water lapped over our toes. “Isn’t this better?” Mandy asked, taking my hand. Standing at the edge of the open sea, my worries drifted away. I reached for her. “Race you back to the cottage,” she said. I followed. We hadn’t begun to have children yet because we still had time. I was raised to believe that we’d always have time, as we always believed we’d have money. Friends from the city—Brenda and Jack—came for the Fourth of July. They brought wine, a loaf of sweet, crusty bread, fashion magazines and their laughter. At night we carried the slouched wooden chairs from our porch to the beach, and watched the fireworks shoot from the sand. “All the explosions and the smoke….” Brenda said. “It reminds me of a war.” “Watch this,” Mandy said. “If I reach my arm out, it looks like the fireworks are exploding in my hand, but they never do a thing to me.” Jack laughed. “You’re invisible.” Mandy was. All of us were, sitting on that beach so far away from the world. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ Patti Jazanoski is a graduate of the Creative Writing program at the University of California Santa Cruz. Her work has appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Opium Magazine and elsewhere.