‘Tis The Last Rose of Summer

By Jeff Baker

There was no breeze but the late September evening was cool. Stephen Bauer stood by the big barbecue grill and watched the flames and sparks rise upward. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. It was tradition, the last cookout of the year.

Stephen’s Grandfather (who he had never known) had started doing the end-of-September cookouts decades before and Stephen’s Dad had continued the tradition. Stephen’s brother, Mom and cousins in town (and their kids) all looked forward to it. It was sort of the last party before Fall really kicked in and schoolwork became intense.

Stephen smiled and glanced around. Over the fence he could see the other trees and houses in the neighborhood. He glanced through the kitchen window; some of the family were piling buns, and hot dogs on plates and grabbing ketchup and mustard. They’d have to get the flames to calm down; they were way too high.

And after the hot dogs somebody would sing the old song about the last rose of Summer.

Stephen closed his eyes and spread his arms, imagining himself rising with the sparks and looking down on the neighborhood.

“Hello, Fall,” he whispered.

—end—

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This little vignette was not what I planned, but it just popped into being. Happy Fall, everybody! —–j