We push open our creaky garden door, duck our heads to fit under the stone entrance, and step into the periwinkle smell of lilacs and the breeze of the neighbors' barbeque. Walker closes the gate and the robin that inhabits our compost heap flaps up in a rush. We are home for the next three and half weeks. Behind the everyday walks to the grocery, the moments when I lean over to smell the blossoms, there is always a tinge of loss, knowing we'll be leaving this place soon, knowing it is silly to…
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