Leaves

By Ron Wetherington

I move down the walkway, thickly covered with leaves, to the steps leading to Mom’s porch. It’s time for us to rake and bag again. I look up at the two large red oaks bordering each side of the walkway. Clusters of red leaves—some yellowish—still cling to the mostly bare branches. The limbs appear lifeless, soon to lose their remaining offspring. The fallen leaves have lost most of their color, and there’s a faint scent of mold hovering in the air. A thought tries to nudge its way to recognition at this scene, but I resist it.

I climb onto the broad porch fronting the old clapboard house. The pair of rocking chairs on the right are the only furnishings. They’ve been there for over thirty years. She and Dad used to sit here in the evenings. When he died ten years back, I suggested she sell the old house, but she insisted on staying here with her memories. She was frail even then.

I swing the screen door and unlock the solid one behind it, letting sunlight into the entry hall. The thought tugs at me again, and I turn back and sit on the frayed cushion of the farther chair and gently rock. No need to enter or call out; she’ll know I’m here. She’s expecting me. 

I need to respect her privacy and not barge in uninvited. She used to remind me of that when I was a little girl, eager to run in and jump on her bed in the mornings. “We each have our private spaces,” she would explain, gently. “We should not need keys to guard them.” Then we would snuggle in her bed, my hurt feelings melting under her caress.

We always sit here on Saturday mornings, mother and daughter sipping coffee, when the sun is high enough to let the porch roof shield us. “Thank you for taking the time to visit,” she’ll say, secretly afraid I’ll not show up on some Saturday. I smile inwardly. I would never miss this time, and the emerging thought gnaws at my memory. 

“I love our visits, Mom,” I’ll tell her, giving her needed reassurance. Like me, she’s not afraid of living alone, and she treasures privacy. But we both seek affirmation, nourishing each other. 

Later, we will reach for the two rakes, still leaning against one of the trees. There’s no breeze, so the work should be easy. We rake the leaves into little piles. I hold the bag while she nudges the piles inside. About five or six bags should be enough. 

It’s a good time together. Maybe an hour and a half of work. “Raking is harvesting memories,” she said the last time we did this. I laughed, “You should snatch them before they fall.” I reach inward at this notion where the snagged thought threatens, and I quickly dismiss it. 

I remember her cheerful countenance, there in the yard; a slight smile broadening the tight lips, happy wrinkles framing her steel-blue eyes. Her distant look is inward, though, conjuring her own space. We will make small-talk, not requiring much reflection.

She’s getting older. How much longer will she be able to navigate the porch steps, fix her own meals, rake leaves? How much longer will she even remember me? I shudder at the slight errors, the little lost thoughts, the forgetfulness. I vow to try harder, not to let things slip away. But I’m pushing back at that insistent signal trying to surface. 

I stop rocking, listen for any sound of movement from inside. I rise and push the door open wider. I step hesitantly inside. My movement disturbs dust motes, shimmering as they rise. The darkened front parlor. Cobwebs on the ceiling fan. The bare wood floor. I recoil at the sour taste of sudden memory and the recollection breaks through.

I quickly close and lock the door. Pocketing the key, I cross the porch and descend the steps. I swallow hard, clenching my jaw, shielding my eyes from the realtor’s sign next to the sidewalk.

Ron Wetherington is a retired anthropologist living in Dallas, Texas. He has a published novel, Kiva, flash nonfiction, and a flash fiction story is currently in press.