and again. every year we close the cottage on a day that reminds us why we close the cottage. grey raw wind and old shutters splintered, worn at the edges, beaten some years with hammers to make them fit into sagging porch window frames, still settling after seven decades. an urge to walk along the beach once more, bundled though, so cold since the last late September Indian summer day with stillness and warmth pulsing through the water, now stormed over, sleet destroying warmth, hoods, jackets, rain shuddering heaves and time passes and seasons tumble before the next. we'd rake leaves, too, into the cement island in the center of the yard, where in summer we'd open the big shade umbrella and drink cold Canadian beer but come fall we put the table, chairs, and every piece of outdoor furniture indoors on the hope of summer, and we burnt leaves and dampness smoldered in the pile until a small flame cringed a leaf into a curl of clear flame with no smoke no memory, no trace that it grew at all.

we played bocce after dinner, watching my dad with his one good arm and short temper caress a ball with a backspin arcing high through the mosquito-rich early evening, still sunlight but softly fading toward dusk and darkness, and in time we'd flip the heavy switch and two outdoor 500 watt floodlights prolonged the thud of heavy balls on grass, the clink in humid air of bocce until mosquito bites and victory for some would bring us in to sleep, to wash off the day's sweat, accumulated stories and layers of time,

but now, as we burn the leaves, or I remember them being burnt, it's always November and today is the exception and the sunlight bathes us in tones of harvest and memory and celebration of our annual rite of remembering and preserving for future time this time now unearthed. but what about the rain, the lashing rain, side bent and sleet driven,

now is before and in this way I return home to share the chores, carry screens into the shed and bring out those heavy boards, some that still I cannot carry alone, and it's always a day that windblown as it is good spirits prevail because we clean our hearts on this day, letting all the summers of our lives come through the smell of sand, damp towels, potato salad and worn bowls and remembered times and we mourn our parents' deaths and wish they were still alive to continue with us in this tradition of summer after summer we face the fall.