My mom stands on the porch, as always, and waves goodbye when we drive away, her hand stretched up, swaying high above her head.
From the rearview mirror, I watch her small house getting smaller and toot the car horn, as always, when we turn left onto the road home.
She likes to clear the table she set for us, a summer feast on her blue-rimmed dishes. Sliced tomatoes soaked in vinegar with crusty bread for dunking, roasted corn rolled in butter and extra napkins for my kids.
She lathers each dish with a soapy sponge, savoring the last August days.