On the last weekend of September, as I have every year since I was a small boy, we hiked deep into the woods on the other side of the ridge where Terg fell from, back before the first of the centaurs started appearing. There is a tree there, not so unlike other trees when first we found it. It must have said something to us way back then, and now we return once again as we have ever since, to solemnly hang another plastic deck chair from its branches. This year, we found one tossed away behind the Wal-mart out in Port Rodiqum. Somehow that store is still operating, and we go there occasionally for a supply run.
Toss the rope over a branch twice, knot, pull, tighten, and when it is done, we all pass around the flask and think of what is to come one day. By now there are dozens of plastic chairs raised high in a tree that no one will ever find. Seems silly? Yeah, maybe a bit. But these days we seek comfort in permanence, something cemented in our shared secrecy.