The sun is setting on Theresa Street.

I couldn't have forecast this one. Patrick's parents are selling their home in Clayton, NY, after almost three decades here. They need a one-story without all these damn stairs, I guess, that's a bit closer to the amenities in town. Me? I can't believe I won't see this old wood banister again.

Patrick's folks spent a lot of time cleaning out the attic while we were here. Pulling down the little hideaway staircase was like opening up a storehouse of cobwebbed memories that Mrs. M. dutifully dusted off and shared as the work wore on.

We uncovered a box of Patrick's baby shoes -- a half-dozen white ones, a few blue striped ones and a little cloth pair he wore before he needed shoes with soles. There were also boxes of baseball cards and matchbox cars and games galore, including ones I'd never seen before. We found a Charlie Brown dictionary and a little basketball hoop that was about two feet tall. Patrick said he used to run up and down that hall playing basketball with the little hoop and watching real games on TV. "That was when he could dunk," Mr. M. chuckled.

I went out to the garage this morning where Mrs. M was sorting through some stuff to take to their storage unit, or "the apartment," as they call it. She was untangling some silver Christmas tree garland that I'm sure witnessed many happy holidays in this house. I told her it all looked like a lot of work -- the packing, sorting, untangling, retrieving and tossing. But it wasn't to her. "I like recalling all the memories," she said.

Surely, they are going to miss this place. I am, too, because it became a serene home-away-from-home for me. Yes, we can always come back here to stay at a cottage or B&B and play the role of tourist. (It is a great little tourist town.) But it won't be the same.

So while I was reading my book on the porch today, I tried to make mental imprints of the sights and sounds of Theresa Street. My eyes traced the lines of the gray stucco walls and the way the green wicker chairs cast shadows in checkered patterns on the winding porch. I listened to the tree leaves rustling and the flags whipping from the neighbors' houses. I heard the creak, creak, creak of the porch swing and the swish-swish of my bare feet passing across the wooden floor as I rocked back and forth. I enjoyed the calm of this street where a car drives down just once every so often, punctuated by the occasional rumble of a tanker crossing the river.

But try as I might, I could not smell the fresh sea water blowing from the St. Lawrence. I love that smell, and I hope the scent is there tomorrow. After all, our days here are drawing to a close.