I saw the same men that worked there last summer - the only woman now a mother. And I saw her, my replacement, with long brown hair and an open freckled face. Her legs long in dirty jeans. She was bagging the stuff, using the system that I invented. She had more flowers than I had. Either I convinced them that it was a good idea, or else she was better at convincing them to outlay the capital costs. Huge pottery planters, massive hanging baskets - oh, the misery of my two plastic pots filled with on-sale annuals. Paid for by me, me afraid to submit the receipts for the $80, for my selfish desire to surround myself with something beautiful in the manufactured wasteland of the landfill.

She seemed happier than I was. I wonder if I was that good at pretending.

The apartment is boxed. We collected boxes from the liqueur store, the grocery store, the cardboard dumpster behind the college. I choose my clothes for the next two months - three shirts, two pants, a pile of underwear. We won't be in one place long enough for anyone to notice my repetitive wardrobe.

I didn't go drinking with the class after exams. Instead, I packed. Ready to move, to move on. My heart breaks to never see them again.

So, this is over, this island life. I have lived on an island for 30 months.