everyone cools off from the Alabama heat, heading inside. Tackling the night, we plan the bowling teams and who will drive with whom. We look to see our paper plates in the trash. We hug and say goodbye, planning to see them again as many leave. Discussing the past weekends, scenery-inspired memories fill minds; the previous hunts for the golden egg, fishing on the pond my great-grandparents' property is named after, its crescent-like shape the reason for its glorified name. As Moon Lake and Easters of the past leave our minds, we hope in the next the fun will resume. Wrist watches see their first glimpse of daylight, as we see our last, the sun barely over the field. Sadness plaques the thinning crowd. We hug and say goodbye, promising to meet again, as many leave. We realize the day will come to an end. Cars awaken. Cousins talk the drive away, savoring their only visit of the year, trying to talk with all of them. Shoes are replaced. Courts are chosen. Bumpers rise and fall with the age of the player who finds their name on the screen. Yawns, loud and muffled are voiced, but the game continues. We finish the game, most unhappy with their score, yet thankful not to face the troubles of the discouraged player with the smallest number. Courts are left. Shoes are replaced. Cousins, saddened having only played one game, climb into cars, talking of schools and sports and games. Back at the old red house, the last of us hug and say goodbye as we find our own cars. The kitchen no longer smells of food. The door closes the final time for the day. The country house quiets; the last guests gone. The familiar road crawls underneath us. We think back on the great day. The lights end their long day's work as the many turn to one-And then to none. 15

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