“Careful, don’t burn yourself.”
“Don’t worry, I got this,” I responded to my ever-worrying mom.
Almost there…and whoosh, my sparkler ignited.
It doesn't seem like much, but to me, a sparkler was a mini firework in my hand. Every Fourth of July, my family and I went to our cottage in little ol’ Neshkoro, Wisconsin. And every year, my parents let my sister and me buy as many sparklers as we wanted.
We would light one, two, three, even ten sparklers at a time. We ran around, spelling out our names with them, and we took goofy Polaroid pictures. And that was only the beginning. When the sun went completely down, and the stars shined bright, we boarded our pontoon and floated out to the middle of the lake, and watched the fireworks explode in the sky.
Red, white, and blue lights danced in the night. I was mesmerized. I have never seen anything more beautiful.
The whole lake roared after each firework. Campfires blazed, music blasted, and barbecue sauce could be smelled from miles away. It was like one huge party that everyone was invited to. We were all celebrating America.
But eventually, the fireworks ended, the music muted, and the campfires reduced to glowing embers.  My eyes eventually became heavy and I drifted in and out of consciousness. Then, we went back to the cottage where I went to bed safe, sound, and proud to be an American.