barbeque (1)

The smoke curled lazily through the branches of the pecan trees, a blue-gray ghost that smelled of spice rub, charcoal, and something sweet—a secret ingredient no one ever pinned down. It wasn’t just a barbecue. It never was. Not here.

Each year, on the second Saturday of April, the pit was lit before sunrise. Men who rarely cooked scrambled out of bed before dawn, shoulders stiff, proud, and more than a little hungover.

The women, those who still came, would bring trays wrapped in foil, murmuring greetings and passing judgment in equal measure. The kids tore through the field chasing each other with water guns, juice boxes sloshing in forgotten backpacks.