Slowly the meadow filled with people and fireflies and laughter -
just as my father had imagined - and the lambs on their spits were
hoisted off the pit onto the shoulders of men, like in a funeral procession,
and set down on the makeshift plywood-on-sawhorse tables to
be carved. Then the sun started to set and we lit the paper bag luminaria,
which burned soft glowing amber, punctuating the meadow
and the night, and the lamb was crisp-skinned and sticky from slow
roasting, and the root beer was frigid and it caught, like an emotion,
in the back of my throat.
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