Summer Months -

By mid-May, she had learned the rhythm. The hardware store closed at noon on Wednesdays. Mrs. Pellegrino from three doors down left a basket of rhubarb on the step every Friday. The bay was still too cold for swimming, but she walked the shore each morning, collecting smooth stones and watching the fog burn off.

She arrived on the first of May to find the cottage still buttoned up against April’s chill. The key turned with a groan. Inside, the air smelled of dust and old linen. She lit the pilot light for the stove, swept the floors, and made the bed with sheets she’d brought from the city. summer months

She had come for the summer months. But the summer months, she realized, had been waiting for her all along. By mid-May, she had learned the rhythm

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. Pellegrino from three doors down left a basket