Every August fifteenth our village holds a fête on the small square across the street from the church. There’s a big fire for barbeque, long trestle tables placed on either side of the old tree in the center, closing the square with a few more end-to-end tables. There are chairs and benches lined on both sides of the tables. You bring your own tableware and meat for the grill, and a dish to share. We eat out in the lingering dusk of Assumption Day, knowing the summer will soon be over. I prefer to sit with my back to the tree, looking at this view of the church as darkness gathers around us.
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