I want to write everything we did and said all summer, but I can’t—my heart can’t bear to write what will never be again.

Which means we now come to the worst part of the year—the sorrowful part—the part that butts up right next to the joyful part; one on top of the other.

Eleven

Eleven

Morning came in a quiet whisper; even after the chaos of a jubilee, there was the calm of simple beauty. An undemanding day began with sun, warmth, and water sending cloud-filtered shafts of soft light across the bay to a backyard swathed in live oaks old, gnarled, and ancient. I cradled my coffee cup, walking through the grass and opening the gate with the letter W forged into the iron where moss and leaves were caught in the curls of the scrolling. My bare feet hit the wooden pier worn smooth by storm, wind, and running feet. I reached the end of the dock, where there was a grill, a white wooden table, scattered chairs, and lanterns with half-burned candles.

The plank boards shimmied under my feet, and I turned to see Sadie walking toward me, holding a coffee cup. I waved with my free hand. She reached my side and hugged me with one arm; no words were spoken. I sat on the hanging swing, patted the seat next to me.

She sat and we listened to the water, to the screeching gulls, to the boat motors we could hear but not see. There were a few bloated flounder floating on the surface of the bay; dead shrimp at the edges of sand and water; a crab floating past us as the tide moved to sea—jubilee remnants. Finally I spoke. “Thank you,” I said.

“For?”

“Bringing me here.”

“You’re welcome. Please stay as long as you need. Mother says you can stay for a hundred years.”

“Hmmm … a hundred years. I don’t think that’s long enough. Can you ask for more time? Please?”

Sadie laughed softly, as if it were a secret that we’re able to laugh. Then I saw Ms. Birdie standing at the back gate. The feeling was disconcerting, as if you realized a car was following you or someone had tapped your phone. She waved at us as we walked up the cobblestone path back to the house. Grass and moss grew between the stepping-stones, anchoring them to earth as surely as if they’d grown there. The heat was already intense, and sweat ran down my back below my tank top.

We reached the stairs and she smiled down at us. Her dark and gray hair, which she’d stopped coloring years ago, was pulled back into a barrette. Her face was naked of makeup, showing her years of wrinkles set and formed around her sweet spirit. “Breakfast is ready,” she said as a greeting.

“Oh, you didn’t have to cook for us,” I said.