The Braai Roll

The first time it is packed, someone thinks about the order.

Knife.

Tongs.

Fork.

Brush.

Skewers.

The strap is pulled through and the leather rolls around them with a low, dry creak.

Then it goes into the back of the car.

For a while, it is forgotten.

There are roads.

A gate.

Someone carrying wood.

Someone else asking where to put the drinks.

Later, beside a fire that is only beginning to settle into coals, the roll is put on the table.

The strap comes loose.

Leather falls open.

The knife is there.

The tongs beside it.

The brush exactly where the hand expects the brush to be.

No drawer.

No searching through somebody else's kitchen.

No question shouted across the garden.

Just the small sound of steel leaving leather.

Then the work can begin.