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18 Last Chores of Fall The฀trace฀of฀October฀lingering along฀the฀ridge฀behind฀our฀house, the฀exhale฀of฀yellow-gold within฀the฀stagger฀of฀oaks tells฀us฀it฀is฀time฀to฀move฀inside, let฀our฀blood฀return฀to฀its฀quiet wander,฀the฀year฀now฀browning toward฀a฀sudden฀frost.฀This afternoon฀I฀will฀slowly฀uproot the฀impatiens,฀tossing their฀gasps฀of฀pink,฀white, and฀salmon฀into฀the฀dark of฀the฀compost฀pile.฀Remembering to฀bend฀at฀the฀knees,฀I’ll฀carry the฀cracked฀and฀chipped฀pots back฀to฀the฀garden’s฀shed, stack฀them,฀letting฀the฀clay of฀one฀pot฀settle฀into฀the฀dirt in฀another.฀I’ll฀bring฀in the฀geraniums,฀their฀twisted, leggy฀stems฀nearly฀leafless, and฀cut฀them฀down฀to฀hopeful nubs,฀then฀set฀them฀on฀the฀sill. The฀dogs฀will฀watch฀as฀I฀wash and฀dry฀the฀trowel฀my฀father used฀for฀thirty฀years.฀Each year฀he฀added฀another฀row or฀two฀of฀flowers.฀I’ll฀hang 19 the฀trowel฀on฀its฀rusty฀nail. The฀dogs฀will฀lift฀their฀mysterious noses฀into฀the฀changing฀air,฀into the฀smells฀of฀mud,฀moldering leaves,฀the฀scent฀of฀approaching snow฀along฀the฀stream฀below the฀barren฀ridge.฀Then฀I฀will turn฀back฀to฀the฀house,฀the฀sun burning฀down฀early฀into฀its฀setting. ...

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