Heat waves still emanate from the grill. Paper plates, smeared with ketchup, mustard and remains of burgers and hot dogs, litter the tables.

One of the grands is sitting on her aunt’s lap. The grand just turned 14 and is a good three inches taller than her aunt. She is in an uncomfortable looking plank position with her long, lanky legs outstretched far beyond her aunt’s.

Her aunt announces that her right arm has been rendered inaccessible and she cannot eat dessert. Her niece tells her to eat with her left.

This is the same aunt who often held the girl as an infant, one of the preemie twins who cried ferociously off and on for the better part of a year. Perhaps part of the girl instinctively remembers and has melded into the one who held her so many times long ago.

Maybe it’s simply some of the lasts. The last cookout. The last days of summer. The last time she can crush her aunt.

A kickball game is stirring. They’re on the verge of being too big for kickball in the backyard. But that’s part of the thrill—seeing who can kick the ball over the 80-foot pines and into the neighbor’s yard.

Six female grands ages 6 to 14, two young buck sons-in-law and the man I married, moving slower than usual because he has been digging a new garden bed for me the past two days, take their places.

The pitcher, the son-in-law who is a business guy by profession but a coach at heart, rolls the ball over home plate. The kicker kicks, the ball sails into the air. The pitcher jumps, catches it and takes aim.

No mercy. Direct hit on the left arm. The runner sees it coming, flinches and screams accordingly.

The hit makes a hollow smacking sound, but it’s not a hard hit. It’s not a real kickball; it’s one of the hundreds of assorted plastic balls that roll into the driveway every time we open the garage door.

There is more kicking, more running, more screaming and yelling. The neighbors often throw a party when cold weather sets in and we move these gatherings inside.

The youngest one in the group is kicking next. She, wearing a white eyelet dress and sporting a new back-to-school chin bob haircut that bounces with her every move, is in kindergarten this year.

She readies for the pitch. The ball rolls toward her. Run, run, swoosh. Her leg flies out and misses.

“Again!” the crowd yells. “Again!”

Another pitch. Run, run, swoosh. Another miss.

“New pitcher!” someone screams. It was me. Kickball can turn ugly so fast.

Another pitch. Run, run . . . her foot makes contact with the ball. To call it an actual kick would be an overstatement; nonetheless, the ball wobbles sideways and she’s off. Hair bouncing, dress flying.

An outfielder nabs the ball and takes aim—but knows better.

The crowd cheers wildly as she rounds second, third and crosses home. She stands as tall as her short frame will allow and carries her head high. It is obviously official – she’s one of the big kids now.

The sunlight wanes and the game ends. They all load up and head for home.

It’s a fine finish to a fine season.

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