I walk on the beach in Montauk with night fog so thick there is no discernible horizon. I take off my rain boots and put my feet into the ocean for the first time of the summer.
In May I am careful about the photos I post.
In June I finish my first year of graduate school. I write a paper on the anxiety of motherhood in 19th century America. My mother says to me, don't get carried away.
In June I buy skirts with stretch and Annie comes for a visit and Shiloh has her baby.
I keep running.
In July I hike the Appalachian Trail. Some of it.
It gets hot. I keep running.
In July I start to swim.
My parents visit. I tire us all out.
In July I can no longer recruit my stomach muscles to sit up.
The last Harry Potter movie comes out, and it's wonderful, but feels like the end.
I go to Rockaway Beach and feel slightly conspicuous. I lay on my back for the last time for Summer 2011.
People, women mostly, start to give up their seats on the subway.
In August I stop running. I keep swimming.
Annie and Shiloh throw me a beautiful party.
In August I wear three skirts, over and over and over.
I finish school.
I am married to James for 7 years.
In August I see a hurricane.
In September I am alone when I cut my finger and sprinkle blood on my kitchen floor.
I have one outfit to wear to church.
It is 10 years since September 11th, 2001.
Allen gets married 2,000 miles away and I miss it.
A woman stops me in Target and makes a face at my choice of hospital.
A man crossing the street says I have a beautiful belly.
My pizza man asks how my parents are.
In September the summer ends.