I’m putting up red, white, and blue flowers once a day over the next couple of days. I’m learning that flowers speak; they are sending me messages all the time now; perhaps I’m spending too much time outside in the Canadian smoke.

This first one was easy; in one bed, there were red, white, and blue flowers right next to one another.

I love my country, perhaps as only the grandson of refugees who came to America to live freely and stay alive can.

I love my country, even when it doesn’t seem to love me.

I’ve spent my whole life here and fully expect to end my life here.

The fourth is a couple of days away, but I’ll keep the red, white, and blue flowers coming to remind me of what the holiday means.

I will think of the countless people who gave their lives for people like my grandparents to come here and be free.

That is what the country means to me.