I’ve got last day blues. They are as blue as the waves crashing on Squibnocket when I flash my beach pass for the last time. And as blue as the blueberries I don’t find when I make my last farm stand run.

Will the sky be this blue when I’m gone, I wonder as my eyes trace the maze of lace rock walls, trying to map them to memory. I’m going, along with summer, fingernails dug into the last days of August.

I don’t even joke about staying. When the first snowflake hit I’d be squealing for the airport in five wool sweaters. I know my strengths. And I know I can’t avoid the drifts no matter how far I fly. I’ve built my own snow banks out of emails and calls and appointments. They are up to my ankles now and I’ll quickly find them up to my chest if I don’t get back and start shoveling.

I wish one Wednesday morning I’d thought to ask a farmer what those snowflakes do for the tomatoes. Does the field’s winter rest make the sweet corn sweeter? What do the cycles do besides help us mark the time?

Maybe the sweetness is in the synergy, the sun just right, the salt in the air, exhausted from a day of rest, loved ones by your side, all come together to prepare you for the perfect taste of a pea shoot on your tongue. A perfection that is just a shadow when the tender green finds itself on a fancy plate far, far away from the field.

So I can dream all day about staying but staying isn’t real. The seasons move even if you root yourself and dig in hard. Everyone has their snow to shovel. For some people it is here and cold, for others it takes a different shape. Tomatoes give way to apples, and apples to red leaves, and we all know our version of the rest.

But you have to wonder how much the sweetness of the pea shoot comes from knowing the coldness of the winter. The Island can be a pile of lessons rising up out of the ocean, made of wampum shells and flat bike tires and family fights and moonlit walks. Sometimes I see mine shining as bright as a lighthouse beacon and other times I strain to make them out through the fog.

Take yours and you’ll have a map as sure as stone, keeping you steady until your time to taste the spring returns and you know you’re home.