Saturday in the Park

It’s the Fourth of July, which in my corner of DC means one thing: the Palisades parade, my favorite DC event of the year. For one glorious hour, anyone who wants to can march down MacArthur Blvd and be part of the show. No auditions, no floats required, just neighbors and dogs and fire trucks and kids on bikes. It is pure small-town Americana in the middle of the nation’s capital, and I love it.

I had every hope of going. But I woke up today and my body had other plans: tired, cranky stomach, a dull ache in the foot, and outside, another day of record-breaking heat in a streak I’ve lost count of. Getting parade-side means trekking up the big stairs to the road behind our place, and every sensible cell in my body said no. So no parade for me this year.

The day wasn’t a loss, though. I got my first real bath since surgery, a welcome development for everyone in smelling distance, and it genuinely helped the mental side of things. Because here’s the part of recovery nobody puts on the brochure: post-surgical blues are real. It’s the moment when everything hits at once, and you realize just how much healing is still ahead and how many limitations are coming with it. I know things will absolutely get better. The job right now is finding the small joys and stacking up the little wins.

Speaking of which: my SIL showed up last night with ice cream. Not just any ice cream, Yala ice cream, which is Greek. Google tells me it tastes so damn good because it’s “a Mediterranean-style frozen dessert known for its exceptionally light, velvety texture and fruit-forward flavors,” and I can personally attest: exceptional.

So no, I’m not parade-side today. But somewhere up the hill, my neighbors are marching down MacArthur Blvd like they have for sixty years, and that tradition doesn’t need me on the curb to keep being wonderful. On the country’s 250th birthday, I get to sit still, heal, and eat remarkable ice cream brought by someone who loves me. That’s its own kind of lucky. Next year, I plan to be up there on two good feet. Maybe I’ll even march.