The demographics in the West Fargo, North Dakota, neighborhood where I grew up have changed, but not the kids. Not one bit, howling as the fuse gets lit, stomping on the spend-but-still-spinning Ground Bloom Flowers, daring scrambling closer shouting this one this one this one next! dropping the kamikaze killer bees into my cupped palm.
Nor has my mom moved from the eighties in her loud yellow Black Cat tee, handing out sparklers with a string of Be Carefuls, the eye of the gimme-gimme wriggling storm. Chain-lighting sparklers while Mom held back the toddlers, I burned only one boy, careening into my punk in the melee, the chaos of America chorus of shrieks, singeing his arm.
I blew on it.