We used to walk on the beach, up to the lighthouse, telling stories and laughing. Every Fourth of July, we would eat plain turkey subs and watch the fireworks. She had been sick for as long as I could remember, and I always knew to be gentle, be kind, she’s fragile, she’ll break. But we could still have fun, relax. It was not that hard to walk, and we could go wherever we wanted.

Sickness is strange. It has the moments of pure hope, a moment of peace, a good day, when the sun is shining and the sky is clear and she can walk and talk and laugh, when the poinsettias are bright and the lawn is covered in fresh snow, free of all footprints, and the dogs are behaving and the kids are happy and no one thinks the day could ever end. They don’t see her. She might be in less pain than usual, but she is tired.

Passing out poinsettias to the sick, she is giving even though she deserves to take, she is smiling though she deserves to cry and she is moving while her limbs cry to stop, stop! while the pain is a throb and she is so tired, so tired. She pretends as her family sees only joy, only hope, this is a good day, they say. This is a good day.

It is a good day, the white snow and the blue sky and the brown trees, the red brick houses all in a line, the yellow lines on the long road home, the single cloud puttering along its way through the endless sea of sky, the sun shining and people laughing, not praying, not crying, full of hope without trying, joyous, celebrating, not knowing what’s ahead, blissfully ignorant of the darkness, in the moment but also so far away. Forgetting what came before and being stupid, thinking this would be every day, forever, and nothing could hurt us. In that day, we were invincible. Nothing could touch us.

Looking back, remembering that day, there were others that came close, the last Fourth of July, one last walk on the beach, but they were never the same. The Subway worker gave me mayo, which is disgusting, and we never got all the way down to the lighthouse again.