It’s the kind of evening that smells like endings.
The sun’s hanging low. The beer’s gone warm. And the grill’s coughing smoke like an old truck that knows it’s got one more run before retirement.

Summer’s been good to me. Too good, maybe. There’s grease on the deck boards, sauce stains on three shirts, and a section of the lawn that’ll never recover from the grease fire of July. But as I stack the charcoal one last time, it hits me, this pit and I have been through some things.

The lid’s dented from the tornado warning I ignored. The handle’s half-melted from that time I got distracted by a neighbor’s argument about “propane efficiency.” The thermometer fogged up sometime in June and never cleared, like it saw something it didn’t want to talk about.

Still, she burns true.

I toss in a rib rack, slow and easy. The meat hisses, tight at first, then relaxes like it knows this is the season finale. I’ve done this dance a hundred times. Salt, pepper, patience, and a whisper of rebellion. The radio’s playing something from 1984 because Spotify’s algorithm knows my soul’s powered by distortion and nostalgia.

The air cools. The smoke thins. For once, I’m not trying to impress anyone. Not the neighbors. Not the followers. Not even myself. Just me, the coals, and the ghost of summer laughing in the trees.

Halfway through the cook, I start thinking about all the meals that didn’t make it. The brisket that split in half like a divorce. The chicken that hit the ground mid-flip. The ribs that came out so tough I used them as kindling. Every failure earned me a scar or a laugh. Usually both.

By the time the ribs hit perfect, it’s dark enough that the stars are starting to show. I pull up a chair that’s one storm away from collapsing and take the first bite. The smoke’s sweet, the fat’s soft, and the silence hits harder than the heat ever did.

My wife pokes her head out. “You gonna freeze out here?”. Negated to forewarn me of the below normal Alberta-Clipper blowing 40+ MPH from the north earlier.“Probably,” I say, “but it beats listening to the air fryer sing indoors.”
She shakes her head, goes back in, and I swear I hear her smile.

The beer’s flat, the coals are dying, and the mosquitoes withe their fleece jackets are winning. But I stay planted, just soaking it all in. The flicker of ember light. The smell of oak. The sound of a grill whispering its last sigh before winter tries to lock it away. Little does Madam Winter know that I BBQ through every season.

I think about covering it, then don’t. Some tools earn their rest showing every scar they took.

The summer season’s done. But the fire, that thing that makes you drag a smoker out in 100-degree heat just to get one perfect bite, that doesn’t quit. It hibernates. It waits.

I'll be back out soon, thaw or not, I’ll be right here again. Beer in hand.
Same pit. Same scars.
Different summer.