Leaves in big, black garbage bags. Red, beaten, sorrowful, fallen leaves that my father plows and collects and dips into plastic bags. Leaves that are now the face of our lawn, our backyard and deck. As the winds pick up speed, I see the leaves dancing in the air, gathering dust. I toast my bagel, wait for the water to boil so I can make tea, and watch the dance from inside. I feel closer to what gathers behind the windowsills than to what I hold myself against inside the house. I feel closer to autumn and the winds and the leaves than to the rug under my feet, the room that has yet to warm, and the unfurnished walls. And winter is inevitably coming. I am afraid it will take away what little I have left behind the doors. I am afraid that the grass, along with the auburn leaves will disappear beneath the snow, melting, fading.
My father loves this house. Sometimes I think it was his dream, having a house for his children. He wears a sweater, refusing to take his winter coat out of the closet, puts on his gardening gloves and goes into the winds, his perfect, grey hair rising up. He gathers the leaves and dips them into plastic bags and keeps going until he tires down. I see him walking in, a fainted smile on his mouth, taking off the gloves and smoothing his hair. And he says nothing of the wind or how it hit him hard in the face. He says nothing of his sorrows, of the past that he now can throw out like the garbage bags. He says nothing, but that he is tired and wants a cup of tea.
We’ve left eight bags, full of recovered leaves, right by the mailbox. Someone will pick them up tomorrow, these heavy bags of the unwanted. And my father will do another round of plowing with my mother.