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.
Mara had pictured June: windows thrown open, a breeze carrying the smell of cut grass and salt from the nearby bay. She’d imagined reading on the porch swing, iced tea sweating in a glass, the long light of evenings that forgot to end. summer months
August came heavy and sweet, the way fruit knows it’s about to fall. The goldenrod bloomed along the roadside, and the crickets sawed their legs together in a chorus that started at dusk and didn’t stop until dawn. She swam at midnight once, the water bioluminescent, each stroke leaving a trail of cold green sparks. She laughed alone in the dark, and the sound felt like something she’d forgotten she owned. The last week of August, she packed her bags slowly