As the nation celebrated its birth, for me, it was a day of remembrance, realization and warm reality. Eight years ago, I, at a little over three months, miscarried a pregnancy, a common enough fact that affects 20 percent of women. My loss, discovered during a routine exam, became my personal 9/11. In short order, my relationship of three years died too. In many ways, like the towers that once rose above New York Harbor, the life I knew and the one I hoped to live crumbled within that black, idol sonogram machine’s screen.

The news set in motion a long, lingering, march towards motherhood, which on paper had ended on February 4th, the snowy day that I brought Julia to the United States. However, emotionally and psychically, the road ended today, Independence Day, the due date of the baby I carried long ago, a birthday we never celebrated. Together.

Today I look at myself with eyes I usual reserved for Julia, a glow of awe, honor and reverence, relieved to have arrived in the promise land of parenthood.

Let the cherry bombs pop, and the silver sparklers shimmer and the arching light flowers bloom across my heart.

And to think I came so close to missing it.