When I was younger, I claimed to know everything. We all did, didn’t we? Go grab a light jacket, mom said. It was summer. The days were hot, the nights cool. Every year on July fourth, my family would make the trip to the nearby elementary school to enjoy the sparkling, glowing explosions in the sky. Fireworks. Mom always reminded Erin and I to bring something warm to wear, knowing we would get chilly. She was right; although, I never listened. I didn’t want to carry around a light jacket, let alone wear it. Sooner or later, I noticed the little sacs sprouting on my olive skin and began to shiver. The chattering of my teeth was so uncontrollable it sounded like a faint buzzing from a distance. It began to be difficult to enjoy the fireworks that I looked greatly forward to seeing each year. Before long, I felt a fuzzy fleece, softer than a bunny’s fur, sprawled around my shoulders. It was my mom, engulfing me in her jacket.