The sun hung high and steady with a stubborn permanence and burned a hole in the sky as if a smoldering cigarette had been pressed to ash there moments before; the contrast of the blue and the gold and the green of the ground seemed cartoonish, ideal, and around four in the afternoon we stepped outside into the stifling heat of the mid-east. It wasn't the same deck of the summers of our past, of course- Ricky had only been to the new house once before, and for only a couple of days- but how very familiar this was. Humidity changes everything when it reigns at such an extreme. The iconic water swells within the air, stands between you and the world with such an exhausting density that it slows your movements to a sweet, lazy ballet, and reminds you that you are in the south, or at least close to it. One can't afford to hold on to anything other than what is actually there when in such oppressive heat; there is no energy for pretenses. We have grown; Ricky is six feet tall and speaks in a booming, low voice, and I am millions of miles away from what I once was, yet here we are, children again, in the same thick, Cincinnati heat that we played in years ago. Our attempts to catch the Frisbee we are tossing about blindly grow more and more careless and slow. Our attention begins to wane even more rapidly now; we are barely aware of the other, completely indifferent yet seamlessly comfortable in each other's presence. My brothers and I grew up together and possess the understanding and the comfort that consequently follows. Regardless of the differences between us, regardless of where we go and what we strive for and what we eventually become, we will always share this.