Of Ritual.

Bird House.

The sensory input at the reunion, forever unchanging, fulfills and marks the beginning of August, to mark the beginning of the end of summer.

What else can I say about the Roberts’ Family Reunion that I have not touched on before? This year, even the weather was identical to last year’s; muggy, overcast, air heavy with moisture. I take comfort in this ritual, in this marking of the year, of the first Sunday in August. Now, the summer can start it’s slow to decline to Labor Day. The green of roadside droops from heat and in shortened shadows, I laugh with my family over steamed sweet corn, over the variation of the years. What was I last year? Who am I this year? What will I be the next time I make the ritual drive out to Drums, out to this strange, lush piece of Pennsylvania life?

Hot Dogs.