The sun is warm, but the air’s cool on his brow. He bends his back to the rake. Brown plate-like leaves dance in the breeze before he stacks them high.
The sun is warm, his body slick with sweat, harder work than expected. But the deck is clear, chairs neatly placed and Mother patiently waits. “Shall I pour tea?”
His mother doesn’t drink too well. He tips the liquid in through skinless lips. It drips through teeth. And wind blows the leaves.
Then he weeps. His mother’s just a heap of scattered bones. “Put me back,” she cries. He tries.