Evening In Summertime (Missing you.)
(563 words)

Evening in summertime, inland Southern California. The scent of wood smoke drifts on the breeze, filtering down through the branches of evergreens. Oak soot from wood fire, some from dad’s barbeque at the edge of the back porch- the rest remnants of the recently extinguished wildfires that blackened the hills to the East and North of us.
“Whap!” “Whap!” “Whap!” My brother and I toss the ball back and forth on the lawn next to the house. “Whap!” That positive impact of ball hitting mitt- years later this sound is just as reassuring as it ever was, the one certainty in life: If it hits the mitt with that solid “Whap!” it just isn’t coming back out.
“Whap!” The ball stings my hand through the mitt but I don’t dare tell my little brother. Instead I try to whip a little more speed into my return pitch.
“Whap!” I almost discern a wince. It barely registers on my brother’s face. He turns his head a little as if distracted and takes the ball from his mitt with his pitching hand. Windup- “whap!” This time there’s got to be a bruise on my hand but I keep it to myself, looking over at the barbeque a little to hide the tears forming at the corners of my eyes. That smarts.
I put everything I have in this next one, trying unsuccessfully to disguise my elaborate windup.
“Whap!” My brother whips off his glove and looks at his hand, the palm now red and a little swollen from the repeated abuse.
“Geezus Christ!” he looks to the heavens, mumbling.”.…trying to put a hole in me…” He rubs his palm. A smile appears on my face as I wipe the tears from my eyes with the tip of my forefinger.
My brother nods across the lawn at me, laughing. “Smoke get in your eyes?”
I nod the affirmative nod, coughing out an abrupt laugh back his direction. “Yeah- goddamn smoke.”
Screen door swings open and slams shut. Cats scatter leaving a flurry of dried leaves in their wake.
Dad is all business in a denim apron with a blue willow platter of meticulously marinated chicken parts balanced on one raised hand, tongs and a brush and a bowl of barbeque sauce gripped in the other. The picture of concentration, he lays each piece over the red-hot coals with care and precision, smiling only when we break him from his reverie to ask how long it’ll be until dinner.
Tongs held in midair he flashes us a smile, wiping his free hand on a towel dangling from his apron string.
“Boys? Dinner will be served in half an hour.” Focus returns to the task at hand, shifting and turning the meat constantly to ensure it is evenly cooked. He looks up again, catching us before we return to the important business of tossing a ball back and forth. “Why don’t you two do me a favor and go set the table?” A rhetorical question, I make one last half-hearted toss to my brother and pull my mitt off.
“Love you dad.” I say as I walk past towards the porch door.
Stopping again this time with a piece of chicken in midair he flashes me that same sincere smile, taking the time like he always tries to whenever he gets the chance. “Love you son.”