The Last Day of Summer Vacation

7:42 a.m.

The kitchen clock is ahead four minutes and nobody has fixed it. This morning nobody cares. Breakfast is late on purpose — pancakes, the last of the blueberries, syrup warm in the old pitcher, and the newspaper unread at the end of the table. She comes down in her shorts with sleep still on her face and sits with her feet on the rung of the chair. The light through the kitchen window is the flat bright light of late August, and the shadows of the maple leaves lie on the grass without moving. The tomato plants by the back door have stopped producing; the fruit on the vine reddens but stays small. We eat slow, and she licks the syrup off her thumb and goes upstairs to try on the shoes again.

9:15 a.m.

The shoebox sits on the kitchen counter with the lid laid on loose. She opens it and takes out the canvas gym shoes with the laces — new, white-soled. She sits on the bottom stair to put them on, then walks the length of the hall, up on her heels, down, turning sideways at the mirror. She says they fit. The soles are white and leave no marks on the wood floor. She wears them through the kitchen and past the clock on the wall, then takes them off at the back door and lays them side by side on the mat. The laces hang even, the same length, and the canvas is clean as paper.

11:30 a.m.

We go to the lake because it is the last day. The water is warm on top and cold when her feet go down, and she floats on her back with her arms out and her eyes closed, letting the sun cross her face. I sit on the dock with my feet in and watch the time. No one else is here; the far shore is green and still, and the lifeguard sits in the chair looking out over the water. She swims to the raft and back, to the raft and back, counting the strokes. When she comes out she is shaking a little, and the cold comes off her skin in the air. She stands on the dock wrapped in the towel, and her wet footprints darken the boards and dry there while she walks up to the blanket.

2:20 p.m.

The backpack has sat by the bench in the front hall with its zippers open. Now it is empty on the floor, with the pile beside it — one spiral notebook, a folder, the pencil case with the zipper that sticks. She packs it and zips it, then unpacks it to be sure the notebook is the one she wants, packs it again, and stands it upright against the bench. The calculator is in the front pocket; she has checked twice. On the tag her name is written in big, careful letters. The backpack stands against the bench, packed, and the hall light lies across the canvas.

4:05 p.m.

She puts on the school clothes once, to see them — the jeans and the new shirt that has hung in her closet. She stands in front of the hall mirror and turns sideways. The shirt fits. She takes it off, and I take out the marker that writes on fabric and write her name inside the collar, in letters like the ones on the backpack tag, only straighter. She watches. Then she folds the shirt the way the store folded it and lays it on the chair beside her bed. The shirt sits folded on the chair, sleeves even, collar down.

6:50 p.m.

We eat early tonight. Supper is the last of the grill and the last of the beans. She eats with her feet on the rung of the chair. After the dishes are in the sink, we walk the yard, and she checks the underside of every leaf. The garden is tall and tired; the ground under the plants is bare. She finds one green tomato the size of a marble, touches it, and leaves it on the vine. It hangs there, small and green, at the back of the row.

8:30 p.m.

Bedtime is 8:30, and tonight we keep it loosely. She goes up on time; I hear the water in the pipes; the lamp clicks on in her room and the hall floor shows the line of light under the door. She is reading the library book, the cover worn at the corners. She is not asleep — she is propped on her pillow, turning the pages. I walk past and do not turn the light off. Her window is open to the yard, the curtain moves, and a moth taps at the shade, taps, and is still.

10:15 p.m.

The windows are open, a breeze moves the curtain over the sink, and no light is on in the hall. She is asleep; the book lies on the covers, and the backpack stands at the foot of her bed, and the shoes are on the floor beside it. I stand in the kitchen door; the dishes are done, the drainboard dry. The kitchen clock hangs on the wall above the stove, and the second hand moves past the twelve.