As the flaming box of paper floated up into the sky, I lit my own brain and released it too. Then we both stood and watched the sky, watched the orange burning creations melt into the soft darkness above. They lifted and drifted, beyond the oak trees, and bits of ash fell down onto our heads. It was so dark I couldn’t see the ash falling on my arms, but I could feel it. Like gentle whispers on my skin.

“Wow,” said Jasper, once the fire in the sky was gone.

“I know, right?”

“Can we do it again?”

“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

We made another set and watched them float. Then we made ten all at once, and set them all on fire as quickly as we could. They illuminated the wet branches as they rose, filled the sky with their soft, glowing embers. It was maybe the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. It was so perfect that after that, neither of us even suggested making more.

Back on the blanket, we lay on opposite sides of the camping lantern, staring silently at each other through the bright plastic glow, so different from actual fire.

“Why are they called flaming brains?” asked Jasper after a minute. She rolled over onto an elbow and reached for a marshmallow. “They don’t look like brains.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “My dad just always calls them that. We used to do them with all the neighbors, after cookouts.”

“Like on the Fourth of July?”

“Yeah, but we used to have cookouts all the time,” I said. “There used to be this whole crew of families that hung out together. Once a month, at least, we’d all get together at someone’s house. Me and Sam and our friends would be all crazy in the yard, playing games and whacking things with sticks and running around with hot dogs and watermelon. I don’t think any of us ever used a plate. And meanwhile the parents would sit on the porch and drink beers. Lots of beers.”

“I know about moms and beers,” said Jasper. “Does that bother you? Does your mom ever get mean?”

I shook my head. “No way, my mom only ever got really happy. Annoyingly happy. She’d drink her beer, and then laugh super loud. Like a bird, kind of, HEE-HEE.”

“Yeah, that does sound a little annoying.”

“It was,” I said. “But it was, like, she was so, so, so happy. It kind of made me happy too. Sometimes, she’d just dance. By herself, in the yard. She’d come down to where the kids were and dance alone, all happy. And barefoot! My mom is always taking off her shoes. Even now. But she doesn’t dance anymore, or laugh like that. No more HEE-HEE. That was all before . . .”

“Before Sam?” asked Jasper.