Austin wasn't always fearless.

As a baby, he hated loud noises.

The first time we took him to see fireworks, I ended up sitting in the car with him. I held my hands over his little ears while we watched through the window. The fireworks lit up the night sky, and every bright burst lit up the faces of the people around us. He loved watching the colors dance across the sky...He just wished they would do it quietly.

For the next few years we skipped the big fireworks shows and celebrated at home instead. We'd buy the little neighborhood fireworks—the fountains, sparklers, smoke bombs, and all the simple things that didn't make quite as much noise.

But nothing compared to his favorite.

The snakes.

Those little black pellets that, once you lit them, grew into long, curling piles of black ash.

Austin thought they looked exactly like little piles of poop.

And that was all he needed.

He'd light one, wait for it to finish growing, then yell for someone to come look.

"Who did that?"

Without missing a beat he'd point at whoever happened to be standing nearby.

"It was Dad!" Or Wyatt. Or me. Or whoever he thought would get the biggest laugh.

To Austin, there wasn't anything funnier than convincing someone that a mysterious pile of "poop" had suddenly appeared in the driveway.

He laughed every single time. Looking back, that's who Austin was.

He was an entertainer long before he knew what that meant.

He loved making people laugh.

He loved getting a reaction.

He loved finding joy in the smallest, silliest things.

Over the years we celebrated the Fourth of July in just about every way imaginable. Sometimes we stayed home. Sometimes we went to big fireworks shows. Sometimes we watched from the back of a truck or sitting around with family and friends.

There was never one tradition.

The tradition was simply being together.

It's funny the things you miss.

Not the giant fireworks exploding overhead...

But a little black snake growing on the pavement while Austin stood there laughing so hard he could barely tell his joke.

Those tiny moments never seem important when they're happening.

Years later, they're the ones you find yourself missing the most.