Christine Day - I Can Make This Promise

July 4

Fireworks are banned in my neighborhood. There are too many trees, too many houses. So this year for the Fourth of July, my parents are taking me to the Tulalip reservation, about twenty miles north of the city. They sell all kinds of fireworks, and they have a huge field where you can set them off. This place is crowded and colorful and chaotic. Its amazing.

My parents lead the way to the booths. Theres a food truck parked beside the big gravel lot, selling authentic Mexican tacos. The smell of cooked, seasoned meat fills the air, mixing with the peppery gunpowder from all the fireworks. I can practically feel it, in little flecks of grime all over my skin.

Mom asks, Do you need these, Edie? She opens her palm, revealing a little package of earplugs.

I shake my head. Im okay, thanks.

The booths are set up in several rows. The nearest one is decorated with red, white, and blue streamers, and a huge banner that shouts FIREWORKS in bold letters. The booth across from it is lime green, with little alien heads and UFOs outlined all over it in black paint. Another is hot pink, with candy-colored rockets arranged in bouquets on its counter. The next is blue, with the Seattle Seahawks logo stenciled in stark white and silver, plus the number 12; the 1 is shaped like the Space Needle.

I like this graffiti. I like the bright colors, the bold lines. I wonder if they created drawings and stencils first, or if they just grabbed their cans of spray paint and improvised. I also wonder if they keep sketchbooks, or have favorite places to draw, like I do. Im always curious about other artists and their habits, their unfinished drafts, their inspirations.

As we keep moving, I cant help but drink it all in. Ive never been to a reservation before. Each person I make eye contact with feels significant. Its possible some of them are distant relatives. I could be walking past cousins or aunties right now, and I wouldnt even know it.

A rock-and-roll version of The Star-Spangled Banner starts blaring out of nowhere, and I glance around myself, trying to find the speakers. But as the loud electric guitar mimics the sounds of O say, can you see? I instead notice a food vendor with signs that say they have traditional Native American fry bread.

I stop and stare. The line is huge. The menu is handwritten on a whiteboard. An ice-filled cooler contains sodas and bottled lemonades. There are two open countersone where you pay, one where you wait for your order. I watch as a girl receives her food. The fry bread is a rumpled, golden-brown disk, served on a paper plate. It almost looks like an elephant ear.

As the guitar transitions to a choppy What so proudly we hailed something knocks into the backs of my legs. I stumble and turn around. A dog peers up at me with watery, bloodshot eyes. Hes panting hard, and his fur is mangy, but he looks happy. Surprisingly calm. I thought all dogs hated fireworks, but he doesnt seem to mind the noise, the chaos. He just looks a little lost.

I extend my hand to him. Hi, puppy.

He lifts his big nose. Sniffs my fingers. Pushes his snout against my palm. His tail wags ferociously as he inches closer.

Thats a good boy, I say. Youre a good boy.

I check his neck, but he isnt wearing a collar.

I glance around. Cash registers chime, and shouts of laughter are eclipsed by a huge boom. Shoes crunch across the gravel. A group of men walk by in mismatched basketball jerseys. A teenager adjusts her sunglasses; her colorful, beaded bracelets slide down her brown forearm. A guy with two long, dark braids is wearing a Batman tank top. A toddler is mid-meltdown, hands clamped over her ears, face crumpled as she cries out.

Poor thing, I murmur. I stroke the dogs head, distracted. Wheres your owner?

The rock-and-roll version of The Star-Spangled Banner is no longer recognizable. The guitar riffs have dissolved into wails. It doesnt sound like Oer the ramparts we watched. It doesnt sound like anything. Just crashing notes and frantic energy.

I turn in the other direction, and an older woman catches my gaze and holds it. Shes seated on a stool at the edge of the crowd. Her T-shirt bears the message Find Our Missing Girls. Huh. I wonder what thats about.

Edie? Moms voice cuts in through the blaring guitar and blasting fireworks. What are you doing? She places her hand on my shoulder and gently steers me away. Honey, you cant pet random dogs like that. Its not safe. Look at how big he is. He might hurt you.

Dads behind her. Your mothers right. I know hes cute, but you need to be careful.

But hes alone, I say. Shouldnt we help him find his way home?

Someone will come along for him, Mom says, and I can barely hear her as the guitar screeches. Dont worry.