I’m trying really, really hard to stay focused on that last day of summer vacation. My mind keeps tripping into all the things I have to do when I return, the things we have to do to get ready to leave. One kid left early and the other just pulled out, so now it’s only the two of us and the quiet we haven't heard, suddenly swirls in and out of our consciousness.

Leaving behind the smells of a country summer, the fried food, the seaweed beach, the firewood, the clean air. My favorite sounds, the wind blowing through the trees, the birds in the morning, the sound of the waves as you lie down in the sand with the noise of the next blanket and the kadima balls knocked against the paddles, unevenly.

How do you be here now? When I was younger and the kids were little, leaving was one major anxiety that loomed larger and larger until the night before when kid toys were littered all over, last minute laundry was being thrown in the washer and chaos and havoc were the dominant theme.

Now, backing out of the vacation is not as topsy turvey, but the desire to linger, and not let go of all the differentness of summer life gets more difficult each year.

This year from the deck I actually saw a wild turkey with her little babies perched in a tree for the night. I never saw her again, but I know I will never see that sight where I live. I saw the sea made wild by a passing hurricane that never landed near us, but we felt the might and power from where we sat on the beach. I hung out with friends in their backyards while the sun went down and it got darker and darker, until the only light came from bugs and the constant sound was smacking mosquitos.

The air is blowing past me and through the trees, the sun is making the leaves dance and every now and then, I see the colors changing from summer green to autumn red. And what I realize in these last moments of the vacation is that I have a satisfied sense of having had a fine time. A last embrace of a summer that has folded itself around me.