The last week of August, she packed her bags slowly. She washed the sheets and folded them into the linen closet. She left the rhubarb basket on Mrs. Pellegrino’s step, filled with the stones she’d collected. She turned off the water heater and emptied the fridge.
She had come for the summer months. But the summer months, she realized, had been waiting for her all along. summer months
On her last morning, she sat on the porch swing one final time. The bay was the color of hammered pewter. A single sailboat cut a slow path toward the horizon. The last week of August, she packed her bags slowly