They’re having a bbq next door.

It’s barely noon on a blustery Sunday, presumably after the service led by the pastor neighbor in the white tents next to the house. The family spent the waning light before sunset cutting the grass, brushing their horses, and cleaning the grill. I can see everything from this second story barn apartment. Elk, deer, hawks, antelope, church.

Cars started pulling onto the manicured lawn early this morning, and now drivers and passengers are standing in circles separated by gender and age, trying to avoid the charcoal plumes spiking through the stiff June wind. I’m catching faint whiffs of smoke now and then, same in origin, but different in experience.

Kind of like the variant answers we come up with when we’re trying to find a path through uncertainty, answers that crash against each other like bumper cars at the canceled state fair.

Church isn’t cancelled anymore, at least not at the neighbor’s house. And there aren’t any bumper cars over there, just Subarus and Sprinters parked on the lawn.

Kids playing hide and seek, a couple of tweens petting the horses, laughter from parents finding, in conversation, some sort of commonality.

They’re having a bbq next door.