A suitcase, empty of its contents, lazily drapes itself on an armchair in my bedroom
It still has the smell of the Carolina Ocean
And my bathing suit, dried and crumbled, peeks out from said armchair’s left front leg

Isaiah’s bright orange tank rompers, with pictures of smiling whales and blue fish,
are cleanly folded in untouched towers on the spare bed
And the sandals that I wore everyday through the humidity are nowhere to be found

My toothbrush has changed
The windows are closed
and the air conditioning units are ready to be taken out

Isaiah’s two bottom teeth are fully emerged
His round cheeks are slightly less round
from his constant activity and endless motion

Nick’s jackets hang loosely on the coat stand
now placed near the side door
and his sweatshirts lean lopsided in his closet from use

The sounds of splashes are now crinkling leaves
And the colors are taupe, pumpkin, and navy
The fireplace doesn’t seem so ridiculous either

Even the kitchen talks differently
with its leeks, potatoes, and broth
farewell-ing to the arugula and delicate greens

The skies are sharp blue and piercing white
not fluffy cotton against a deep blue backdrop
as the wistful wind blows against the bricks.

Limbs are covered by long sleeves and jeans
Even a scarf, I spotted, on an evening walker
And children are sniffling their way to school

But my car never got washed as I said I would
Neither did my windows
The scorching sun never let up
and the garden I had hoped to start
and the vinaigrette I planned to try with
my grown herbs
stays bottled inside my head
while the dogs walk in less light
and the mornings are more quiet.

The lemonade stand kids are at the park
and the thick grass demands less
but, the weeds keep coming. Of course they do.

And I, surveying the remnants of summer, wonder
how June, July, and August
so quickly departed.