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I don’t know what I was doing on the fourth of July last year, but I can vividly remember the year before that.

I remember sitting on the lawn behind my house with friends.
We had originally gathered on Flood’s hill, a big grassy slope on which the town gathered to watch fireworks being shot off from the nearest soccer field. Afterwards we walked through the dispersing crowds and the two blocks to my house.

From my backyard we shot bottle rockets out of an empty glass bottle up into the trees, each time hoping it wouldn’t light any of the branches on fire, hoping it wouldn’t fail to take flight and set the grass ablaze.

High school was over and a lot of us were headed to different parts of the country in the next few months. Most would still have family in New Jersey to return to over each extended break between classes, but not all.

I remember a conversation between two friends about their accepting college’s drug reputations, specifically the mention of coke being popular on some North-Eastern campus. I said something admonishing about the drug, asking my friends not to mess around with it. I even told the story of the friend of a coworker who overdosed just a few weeks before.

I had only met the woman a few times in passing, but in stories she sounded rather manic. One evening she invited my coworker over to the place she was house-sitting and upon his arrival refused to let him in. After an argument through the window my coworker left, returned once more to be met by more arguing, and finally left for the night. The woman was found the next morning, apparently dead from an overdose of cocaine. My coworker indicated that he thought it was likely an intentional suicide.

After I told the story, one of my friends remarked how tragic it was, how unfortunate the woman was. Though my feelings have changed in the years since, I said then that I didn’t feel bad for the woman, implying that the situation was her own fault. I now regret having the entire conversation.