There is this place, witnessed by the stand of mountains that includes the Three Sisters. Blackberry cider by the pint. Globe-light strands crosshatched with contrails high in the blue. Trees thick with strong, leafy arms dashed through with the low glow of summertime evening sun. Kid chins smeared with chocolate ice cream, knees rashed from running through the long grasses. Grill smoke. Someone drove a convertible MG with the top down. This is not a place requiring hush, everyone is loose and happy, all are welcome. Go ahead and linger. Pick up your neighbors napkin drifted by the breeze, and return it, smiling. Keep laughing at the tales told at your table and drift your eyes southward, pinpoint your children, briefly. Order another round.
And I tell myself: this is why.