By Joan Connor

Some summers all the cousins came. They came from New Jersey. And Pennsylvania. They came from Oregon. One car came from South Carolina, another from New Hampshire. A few from Massachusetts. None from New York. They parked in the field, bumper stickers a democratic blue. (Except for one.) They parked in the field ringed by mountains. No clunkers among these cars. They came without rust. They came without dents, without dings.
Most summers the cousins came for fun—cookouts, and G and T’s, Fruits of the Forest pies, ironic square dances, and iconic Norman Rockwell parades. Jokes on the porches. Re-told stories. Remembered and remembered memories of memories. But this was not most summers.

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