We sat out by the grill, barbeque chicken doing a slow cook. We had plenty of time to talk, and slipped back into a latent dialect. We spoke of our favorite small game to hunt, fried rabbit and squirrel, field dressing and beer can chicken. The pooch sat between us, waiting to have her ears scratched. He spoke to her in Coon Hound. For a while, we were two young men and home again.
We sat on the couch, the TV low but no distraction. The spouses had gone to bed. As children, three of us shared the same bed, head-to-feet, she, my brother and I. She had the advantage of eight years and remembered much more clearly. Having been home more recently, she shared the pain of the homestead gone to hell. Confidences were thereby allowed, and we were close kin again.