I remember two things about Washington Rojas. The first is that we met one time, 14 years ago. The second is that he inspired one of my most memorable opening sentences as a writer.

It could easily have been my story. I remember being a child on the playground behind P.S. 111 in the north Bronx, joined by my friends and cousins setting off fireworks. I held the M-80 in my hand, chuckling as they all screamed at me to throw it. The fuse was getting closer and closer to its target. Finally one of my friends, I forget who, grabbed the firework and hurled it across the empty playground. I can't remember whether it ever hit the ground. The sound and echo of the powerful explosion has never left me.

I don't know that I've ever fully appreciated what happened that day, even after I met Washington Rojas years later, that one time.

Now, I look at my 5-month-old son and his gorgeous little hands. He slaps at my face in that perfectly innocent way babies explore the world around them. I kiss each finger, and I thank God he was born with all his fingers and thumbs and toes. I will do my best to protect him from the foolishness that could so easily have cost me my fingers.

The photo you see here was shot on July 1 by the Broward Sheriff's Office, which offered an annual demonstration on the dangers of fireworks.

I didn't see that demonstration, nor did I need to. I just need to remember the first words I wrote, 14 years ago, in an article in the New York Daily News.

"Washington Rojas used to be left-handed."

Please, have a happy and safe Fourth of July.