You were back in town this weekend for your family's Fourth of July party. You'd moved out ages ago, leaving behind everything you had ever known.

The place was just like you remembered it. The summer heat beat down on your back, the pine trees surrounding you and giving helpful shade, though it wasn't enough.

The mountainous region, rocky and littered with cliffs, smelled of fresh mint and lavender all the time. Sagebrush and wildflowers grew along the side of the highway, bright reds and yellows, purples and blues and oranges, swimming in a sea of green and gold.

Your family lived in a small Colorado town, in the San Luis Valley, known for producing potatoes and hay. A town called Fort Garland. Population roughly 550. Not even one thousand people, not even an incorporated town. Just a stop on the way to Alamosa.

You hadn't been here for a long-ass time. But it hasn't changed a bit. Run down diners, gas stations, the old park with that shitty slide you hated going down as a kid.

Your old school had gotten a renovation, it seemed, and there was a Dollar General there now. But other than that, not a damn thing had changed.

Driving down the road, technically a few miles outside the Valley but it didn't really count, you turned into the Sangre de Cristo ranches, where your parents lived and where your family would be gathering this year. The ranch roads were long, and the desolate dirt trails reminded you a little of why you left. You learned to drive on Ice House Road. You went four-wheeling with your best friend down County Road 4 when you were a teenager. You know these roads like the back of your hand.

Turning into the long driveway of your childhood home, you hear your old dog barking at the top of his lungs. You hear the roosters crowing in the chicken run your parents still kept. You see your mother, Katherine, watering her grapevines on the side of the house.

You see your aunt Kelly holding your childhood cat under her arm, carrying him inside. He must have gotten out again. He's gotta be, like, 15 by now.

You see your father, Jeffrey, teaching your nephew Rockwell how to shoot a BB gun in the front yard, and you see Rockwell looking nervous and unsure.

Your brothers, Dustin, Parker, and Kyle, are all standing around flipping a pocketknife to see who will flinch, as your sister Paige tries pushing Dustin in the way of the blade, and laughs when he slices his finger. He shoves her.

Your grandfather Ralph and your grandmother Brigid sit outside, telling stories about 'the homeland,' the homeland in question being Ireland, to your nephews Cormack and River, and your little cousins Izzy and Sophia, who all sit attentively listening to them speak.

Your cousin Avery is trying to talk your siblings out of throwing that damn knife, but they're not listening. They never do.

Avery, Izzy, and Sophia's father, John, is manning the grill while his brothers Michael and Karl are cooking the corn and grilling the vegetables.

Aubro, Parker's wife, Brooke, John's wife, and Haleigh, Dustin's wife, are sitting and chatting by the firepit, probably about how fucking stupid their husbands are. They're right, objectively.

For a moment, you feel like you're 15 again. And then you abandon that idea in its entirety, parking and walking towards the house, where your mother greets you.

Katherine: "Oh! We didn't know when you'd be getting here, sweetheart, so we haven't eaten yet. Why don't you come and say hello?"