barbeque (8)

Jacob took them, hesitated, then stepped forward, into the smoke. It wrapped around him like a welcome, or a dare. The coals were too hot. He adjusted the vents. Shifted the wood. Watched the smoke change color, watched it rise steadier, smoother.

Uncle Ro nodded, satisfied. “Harold taught you right.” Jacob didn’t speak. His throat felt thick. He just watched the pit, listened to the hiss of fat hitting fire, and remembered.

His father had never said I love you, but every meal had spoken it, slow, smoky, patient, wordless, the language of heat and care. almost at the end.