I slept badly. I made an effort not to think about the cabin and the future. It was the last night, and it had a kind of symbolism, a hangover from old ways. I felt I must try to remember it all, feel it all, so that everything would be heightened and excited. It was as if I should cling to the mattress, make it special after all these years of sleeping on it and making love on it, and that it should be the same for every thing that was in the house. Except the people. I had already made my farewells to them.

(It seems to me now that there was a great deal of false sentiment in that night; false because I was trying to make myself feel what I thought I ought to, what I thought was normal, instead of accepting that I could not feel any sadness for it at all.)

The next morning was the last time. I kissed each of them as they left and wished them a good day.

When they were gone, I washed the breakfast dishes and made all the beds. It still seemed important to leave everything the way it ought to be; I wanted them to find themselves starting fresh, and I wanted myself to leave nothing behind, uncompleted.

I prepared a dinner and put it in the refrigerator, so that it would only have to be heated. Then I began to pack.

I sorted carefully through my clothes, kept only those that would be serviceable and practical, bunched the rest, all my long dresses and fancy shoes, into garbage bags, loaded them into the car and dropped them off in a Salvation Army box near the house. I felt, when I pushed them through the slot, that I was finally making some progress, becoming unburdened at last.

I took exactly half the pots and pans, three settings of old dishes and silverware we never used, and three mugs. Everything was wrapped in the four sheets and six towels I was taking, and I found boxes in the garage for them. I drove my car into the garage and loaded it there.

I thought of a clock, the little travelling alarm that Stephen had, and was discouraged by the idea. How tired I was of time, schedules, I thought. How much freedom there could be in leaving time behind. And the mirror, I could have taken the one from the hall outside the bathroom, but that was like the dresses and the shoes, a burden of appearances and past use. So quickly, so instinctively, I made the choice, not knowing what it meant.

I went back into the house and took a final look around; everything seemed to be in order, nothing out of place. It was all very tidy, very clean, gleaming, right — and empty. There was only the note left; it was the last act.