37.

Love is probably a sound, something clichéd like fireworks. Clichés are just the most relatable things, so let’s speak in those more. The sound of fireworks failing. I like that the loudest fireworks are often invisible, and the most spectacular ones silent. There are songs that feature fireworks, the sound of them arcing back down to Earth, giving in. I don’t know what they are right now. Fireworks remind me not of independence but of bonfires several stories high topped with an effigy of a traitor, Guy Fawkes. That is one of the biggest celebrations of the year in England, bigger than Halloween, which over there was known more for its tricks than its treats. Meanwhile America’s fireworks are a celebration of, among other things, not having to participate in the gleefully medieval practice of burning bonfires several stories high annually.

Now is different. Now it’s about celebrating independence with people I love, even though my heritage awkwardly straddles five countries, a perfect excuse for lifelong ambivalence about absolutely everything. I will never be independent from much.

Before the years of bonfires at the top of the hill, from which you could see a bunch of other fires happily blazing all over London, we had a few celebrations in a small, green yard filled with fireflies. New Jersey. Someone would set off fireworks nearby and we could catch a few of them over the tops of the trees. And down below we had the fireflies, our house band.

Now I stand in a yard again or, in last year’s case, at the top of another hill, in Vermont. People come together. They hold each other and look, as if listening to music. I can think of the exact feel of my person’s waist if I try. Quiz me on it, my hand can feel it right now, exactly just how much of a love handle there is to handle.