Back
in the day, so long ago
to
be just a memory
of
my younger self, carefree
and
ignorant, roaming the streets
of
the only hometown I knew, but remembering, now,
the
acrid smell of recently raked leaves burning,
smoke
rising from smoldering piles
carefully
guarded by my father and the other
men
of the neighborhood, stalwart men
leaning
on their rakes, remembering their fathers
and
grandfathers, equally stalwart, and watching
the
smoke rise, pungent and sharp,
gray
wisps rising in this collective burning
on
an early evening before dark
and
the wind died down, an image I recall
thinking
of autumn and my own battle
with
the leaves falling, amassing in my yard,
a
carpet of faded colors to be cleared.
But
today, I’m less stalwart than the men
of
my lineage and the laws have changed,
leaves
now to be raked and bagged and placed
at
the end of the drive for pickup, transported
away,
burning and the odor of leaves smoldering
a
crime, a criminal offense, too dangerous,
a
fire hazard by those less vigilant to watch
and
keep guard, too impatient for this autumn chore,
too
risky in the slow burn of autumn leaves.
So
we take out our rakes and leaf blowers
and
contain the leaves in piles on a Saturday
afternoon,
corralling the hangers on and the playful
ones
escaping to swirl in the corners of the fence
and
the children, too, tempted and giving in
to
leap laughing into a freshly raked pile,
piled
high, scattering our work and piquing our ire,
we
who have forgotten the nature of children
and
piles of leaves, perhaps ourselves even,
so
we rake again and again, still, more piles
to
stuff into bags dragged to the street, a Monday
pickup
and the smell of diesel idling or roaring
down
the street as we head off to work, too busy,
yet
remembering “back in the day” and the acrid
smell
of smoldering leaves, our fathers leaning
on
their rakes, these stalwart men, standing guard,
remembering
the autumns of their lives.
