The water was still warm enough to trick you into thinking summer might last forever, but the air had that quiet shift to it, the kind that tells you we're on borrowed time. 

We went scalloping, probably for the last time this year. The tide was lazy, the sun was generous, and the kids were already halfway in the water before l'd even finished pulling the cooler from the truck. James drove us out to our favorite spot so ready to put his mask on and get in the water, grinning like he was born for this, and maybe he was.

There's a rhythm to scalloping you can't rush. It's all about floating, scanning the grass beds for that telltale flash of a shell, dipping down, and coming back up with a little treasure in hand. It's simple work, but it's enough to make you feel like you've accomplished something. The kids squealed every time they found one, holding them up high like trophies before plopping them in the bucket. 

I knew the day was slipping away when the sun softened to that golden glow. We rinsed the scallops, rinsed ourselves, and loaded up sandy towels and tired smiles. Driving home, I kept thinking about how many summers have ended just like this. Salty hair, happy hearts, a little sad to say goodbye but thankful we got one more day.

There will be other trips, other seasons, but there's something about the last one that sticks with you.

Like a postcard from summer, stamped and sealed.