We worked together as a community.

Last night all the fine residents of Oak Grove Street gathered together, arms filled with Taiwanese fireworks.

I brought out the old hot water heater.

Lawrence, who works with knives all day, opened up its gut and we carefully stuffed it full of illegal, yet colorful, explosives.

There were offers of prayer but no one thought it appropriate.

We chose Alexander, the lumpy boy, to strike the match. He’ll never understand what he did that night, but he sure had a big smile.

When it was over, I went back inside, into the back bedroom. There under the bed, I told the 1988 Olympic Pole-Vaulting team that had hidden there, they could come out. Breathe fresh air.

I’ll spend the rest of the summer reacquainting them with the world. I’ll explain cellphones and ATM machines to them. And, together, we can heal.

About Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn’t. He can’t stand that shit.

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