I’m sitting on a wobbly green plastic resin chair, on the front lawn, in the dark. Across the harbor, pale-yellow lights of a distant cabin echo on black water, undulating pillars of light, a dozen stilled comets.

In the house, every light in every room is lit. Our youngest boy and my wife Maria stand momentarily framed in an upstairs window, posed like a pair of dolls in an elaborate dollhouse. In Maria’s arms are a stack of school clothes, laundered bedding and a pair of brand-new soccer shoes.

I’m stacking scraps of pine shelving in a makeshift fire pit. Two summers ago I’d plopped the enameled tub from a rusted-out Weber grill on concrete blocks so the kids could roast marshmallows after a camping trip. It’s sat there ever since. In the dented basin sits a blackened, half-burned log left over from last summer and a pile of burned-up fireworks and shreds of red paper that the kids collected from the beach on the fifth of July.

I squeeze charcoal lighter on the pyramid of knotty-pine, and at the touch of a match, the heap erupts into a jolly fire. The pine snaps and pops in the flames as the half-burned log turns quickly to shimmering embers. Deep in the fire a slender blue-green flame sputters, smudges of unburned black powder and pyrotechnic copper in a blackened Kraft-paper tube.

The screen on the sliding glass door slams with a familiar crack and our youngest boy, followed by the family dog, ambles out to join me in the green plastic resin chairs circling the fire pit. The dog licks my hand in salute. Our boy tries several different seats, stalked by drifting smoke. We sit in an easy silence, mesmerized by orange flames. The dog tiptoes off to inspect a fresh peanut butter jar in the recycling bin.

“Whoa.” Our youngest boy jumps onto the seat of his wobbly green chair as a shower of green and blue sparks illuminates the fire pit. The Black Cat Molten-Madness Fountain may have been a disappointing dud on the Fourth of July, but it’s been baking in blistering sun for two months.

After the sparks subside, our youngest boy enthuses that it would be really cool if pinwheels shot off in the fire. He makes a sputtering sound and spins his fingers in tight circles to illustrate how fun it could be. I grunt noncommittally, picturing his hair on fire, while the rest of the kids file out the sliding-glass door to take seats around the fire.

My wife Maria arrives with an armload of graham crackers, marshmallows, Hershey bars, paper towels, two long wooden-handled barbeque forks, a small paper bag and her phone. She pushes a green plastic seat close to the fire as our youngest boy eagerly narrates an account of the hail of green and blue sparks. Maria glances at me and wordlessly moves her chair away from the fire.

Maria explains that because the our two youngest kids have just been fitted with expensive orthodontic appliances, she’s brought Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for them, to substitute for the sticky-sweet roasted marshmallows. Our youngest girl bursts into tears. Her older sister puts her arm around her. It’s late.

Our oldest kids begin roasting marshmallows impaled on the wooden-handled forks. Our oldest boy remarks that the forks are a big improvement over the last year’s kebab skewers, which had to be handled with oven mitts.

A pine board pops in the fire, sending an aftershock of red embers into the air. Our youngest boy jumps onto his seat, rather deliberately this time, while I stamp out a few cinders that have drifted into dry grass. Our youngest girl says she’s scared.

It’s getting chilly. Our oldest boy claims that he can see his breath.

Maria asks the kids to name their favorite memory of summer. Our oldest boy thinks for a moment, brightens and says “Swimming at Dockton!” Our oldest girl offers the trip to Illinois as her favorite. Our youngest kids, still upset at having to eat Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, refuse to admit to any favorite memory.

We watch the fire in silence. Maria shivers, and with a shared glance, we begin gathering up the supplies to head back into the house. Our oldest boy asks if we should pour water on the fire. “Nah, just let it burn.” I mutter.

When everyone’s tucked in, I turn off the light in the kid’s room, and watch the last embers flicker, fade, and finally turn to black.

— Kevin Pottinger lives with his wife Maria and four children on Vashon.