The Cookout
The scent of red-hot charcoal fills the air
as the sun breaks through the clouds.
My little nieces and nephews play tag
between the lawn chairs
of our older aunts and uncles while they talk.
Just like me when I was their age.
Anybody want a hotdog?
Uncle Lynwood has a voice
that could be heard three miles away
when he whispers.
A line forms at the grill.
“Younger ones first!”
A toddler cries,
The dog walks away
after snatching a meal.
A ritual that always plays out.
Ribs fall from the bone
and the butter on the sweet corn
smothers every inch of the tongue.
Nieces and nephews have watermelon seeds to spit.
“Swallow a seed
it will grow in your stomach!”
Uncle Lynwood blurts out with a wry smile
Hear it every year.
I want to savor every moment.
My boot camp starts soon.
There’s the war;
there are no guarantees.
The sun lost the sky,
dark grey clouds rule now.
Thunder cracks in a distance.
A hard rain chases us inside.