Grilling Days

My driveway is packed with the cars of friends and family, chips put out, and the little ones are running joyously. A cooler filled up with bag ice keeps cold soda and beer, I think half the folks I know were able to get here. I stand over a charcoal grill, today it is my thing, propane may work in a pinch, but briquettes remain king Coals seer some discount longhorn steaks, bought from a friend of mine, will turn the meat ninety degrees, get perfect grill-mark lines. My vegan niece sits not far off, always looks thin and ill, ready to tell everybody: “It’s not okay to kill!” As if the plants she likes to eat didn’t go to their death, some day she might see how it is, but she ain’t got there yet. The youngsters go high on the swings, I hear metal chains squeak, one even gets up far enough to brush against some leaves. Every few moments one flies off, and lands half-stumbling, turns back to his cousins and cries: “That jump was amazing!” The older kids are further back, shagging some fly-balls down, they mix it up with fast bouncers, racing across the ground. Inside men sit and watch the game, share opinions on sports, each convinced they know the deal, which players to exhort. Not a word of work goes around, and to me that’s just fine, Boss-man gets five days of the week, but these two? They are mine. Wives and sisters sit on the deck, indulging in girl-talk, it may be a stereotype, but lordy, how they squawk. Then again, maybe it’s just me, the introverted type, gossiping in a big circle, not something I would like… Take off the ones medium rare, three more minutes—well done, plate them up, then give a shout: “The steak’s on, everyone!”