I’m on the front porch of my boyhood home, lighting off bottle rockets.
It’s incredibly late. Or freakishly early. Anyway, whatever.
Dad’s inside. Dying. Of cancer. The aggressive kind.
I’m drinking whiskey.
I blaze the fuses with the tip of a cigar. Wait for the fuse to burn down just so.
Then toss the rocket skyward.
With each burst, I take a drink.
Then repeat the entire process. I’ve been doing this for hours.
Dad appears at the screen door. He’s mildly annoyed, I can tell.
“Get your ass in here. I’ve things to tell you. Before it’s too late.”