“Hey, grab some matches,” Chuck yelled, motioning towards himself.

At least, that's what I thought he had yelled.

I strained my hearing to catch his words from where I was on the front porch, but it was no use.

The fireworks were going up every minute now, it seemed. Each streak of light barely illuminated his standing figure before exploding into nothingness.

I lunged for the bucket of water next to me and began sprinting, dousing the ground at his feet with all the liquid I hadn’t spilled on my way.

He snatched it from me and banged the side of my head with the empty metal, rolling his eyes and walking away. His shark slippers squelched as he retreated.

Chuck was always nice enough–for a seventeen-year-old, and an older brother.

“I thought you said there were ashes,” I called after him.

He groaned all the way into the house, leaving me and our small stack of explosives that we’d bought from the booth.

The neighbors on both sides of Mom’s house–Wallaces and Hunkins–continued firing rockets, one after another.

I watched the Hunkins’ to our left through the trees that divided the driveways. They stood in a cluster in their front yard and they looked happy.

I let the mosquitos bite me for another half-hour, hoping Chuck would come back out and show me how to light a firework of my own.

“Chuck,” I yelled towards the front door, “Chuck, can you come play with me?”

There was no response.

But, that was the day I’d learned for sure that you couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the gunpowder once it was lit.

More holidays passed–not just Fourth of Julys–and Chuck got older, so Mom and I saw him less.

By the time I started high school, he was living across town and ignoring most of her calls. He’d pick up mine, every once in a while.

“Don’t tell Mom,” he’d start, picking at the strings of his electric guitar in the background, “But, I might head up north and move to Washington or something.”

Maybe it was because he was so much older than me, but he always sounded so sure of his plans.

“Please don’t,” I’d protest, voice bordering on a whine, “I don’t want you to go! You’re already so far away.”

“I’m not far at all,” he’d cut me off, frustration hardening his tone suddenly, “It only takes twenty minutes to get to my apartment.”

 Before I could drive, twenty minutes felt so far. But, even when I was finally able to, I wouldn’t visit much.

 Actually, as far as Mom knew, I didn’t visit him at all.

Chuck always said that the less she knew the better, and I agreed. He was right about those kinds of things.

He once told me that Mom and him had issues way before I came along. Mom always told me that they had no issues.

I never had enough memories of the two of them together to figure out the truth.

Either way, I felt for Chuck, so I always kept quiet.

Staying with our Mom wasn’t an ideal situation, unless you wanted to live hand to mouth because of the tables. 

I had only ever known our mother as a gambler. But, Chuck knew her in so many other capacities. He would tell you otherwise, but I was never so stupid that I didn’t realize what he was protecting me from.

The summer before I moved to college, Chuck finally taught me how to light a firework on the Fourth of July.

“You’re gonna need to know how to do this,” he yelled, jabbing a finger into my chest, “In case they ask you to do some crazy shit in college!”

To our right, the Wallaces set off Black Cat shells in succession, lighting up the entire yard for what seemed like an eternity. I flinched at the noise, hands flying to my ears.

“You really think someone’s going to ask me to light a firework?”

It was futile. I grabbed his arm and yanked him to where I could yell in his ear.

“DO YOU REALLY THINK SOMEONE’S GOING TO ASK ME TO LIGHT A FIREWORK?!”

The final shell exploded and the Wallaces’ grandchildren began cheering.

I shoved him away and let go of his arm, looking at him skeptically. He smoothed out his shirt sleeve and feigned disgust, but I watched as he allowed himself a smile.

An overwhelming feeling of pride rose inside me, filling me with a giddiness that made my hands nearly vibrate with emotion.

I knelt down and began unwrapping the fireworks we’d bought from the Little League booth to mask the excitement.

When Chuck and I were kids, I used to have a composition notebook with a special page in it. I drew a new star each time I got him to smile–each one representing my greatest accomplishment.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! You can never be too prepared,” he shouted gleefully, pumping his fists towards the sky, “You’re about to move across the country!”

This was true. In just a little over a month, I would move across the country and start college. At that moment, I wish I was even a little bit as excited about my future as Chuck was.

The neighbors began the next round of pyrotechnics. Squeals and whistles began to cut through the night air.

“Chuck,” I croaked, still crouched on the ground. Against my wishes, my throat began to constrict.

His eyes were glued to the sky, watching the aerial shells burst and dissipate.

“Chuck, I’m scared to leave,” I tried again, staring up at him. My voice was louder this time, but it was no use.

There was no hope of hearing anything over the sound of the gunpowder once it was lit.

Chuck finally looked down at me.

“What’re you looking at me like that for,” he demanded, “Did you say something?”

I rolled my eyes at him and shook my head before standing up to plop a Purple Rain into his hand.

“I just asked if it was time to light this thing,” I responded.

For the moment, I released any thoughts of the future.

It was just Chuck and I in front of our mom’s house, watching a sky full of sparks. I was happy.

A year later, I was living in Knoxville with a few housemates and a stray, grey cat named Earl that we had found near Market Square.

I had barely survived my freshman year of college (skipping class was a gateway drug, I learned) and accumulated a terrifying collection of orange clothing in my closet.

I was beginning to lead a life that felt like my own.

But, Tennessee wasn’t home. Tennessee didn’t have my 2003 Civic, Loretta, sitting in the driveway. Or, my favorite record shop. Or, Chuck.

“Home” was, and always has been, a subjective word to me.

When I first moved, Chuck and I would call every week. He’d ask me dumb questions like if I had gone to any sick parties yet or if any of the girls in the house were hot.

I’d tell him stories about the clubs on campus that I had joined, or the books we were reading in my psychology classes.

“Ugh, only you could make college sound so boring… But, if you like it, then I guess it’s cool.”

Chuck was always nice enough, for an older brother. I don’t think I ever told him that. I never got the chance to.

On the night of the first Fourth of July that I spent away from home, Mom called me in the middle of the fireworks over Henley Bridge.

The call interrupted the photo I was trying to take of the crowd, and I groaned in annoyance, letting it go to voicemail.

Normally, she would call me every few weeks to tell me how she lost money to her Drunk-O friends. That’s what Chuck and I called the ladies she played Bunco with on Wednesdays.

Her rant would have to wait.

Except, three seconds later, she was calling again.

I began to step backwards into the crowd and crossed the street to a less-crowded sidewalk. Elle, Lila, and Payton all had their phones out, recording and cheering as an orange blast filled the sky.

I could always find them afterwards.

When I hit the green button, I was fully prepared to tell her that it was a bad time and that she would have to call me later in the week. I knew she would ignore me and try to keep me on the phone anyways.

But, Mom was howling, shriller than a Piccolo Pete. It was an unnatural sound that made my bones steel.

“Mom?”

The sharp cracks and thundering booms above me were no longer celebratory. The sound was menacing.

“Oh, God, he’s gone…” she wailed, heaving into the speaker, “He’s dead!”

I felt my body connect with the concrete, but nobody saw–everyone’s eyes were glued to the light show.

The phone was still clutched tightly in my hand. Mom was still screaming.

“How did it happen? How the fuck did that happen?” I heard my own voice from far away.

Above my head, a new segment of flares were set off. Red, white, and blue shot straight up into the sky, whistling before exploding with a menacing boom!

I don’t know why I bothered to ask Mom the same question a million times. I knew exactly what had happened.

At that moment, I didn’t know the reason why, or how Mom had found out.

The only thing I knew, and had known for a long time, was that there was no hope of hearing anything over the sound of the gunpowder once it was lit.