By Tom Dilworth

“They drive too fast through here,” he said.

“Hmm,” she said, raking leaves without looking at him.

He scoffed and carried the extension ladder to the front of the house. His arms ached, holding its weight. Their son had offered to clean the gutters on Saturday. It can’t wait, he texted back. Supposed to rain.

She glanced up, watching him on the ladder. The wind tugged like a child. Up high, it caught him. His old, freckled hands turned a light plum color. He climbed down with a bucket of leaves and dumped it near the curb.

“Colder up there than I thought,” he said.

“I can’t wait to get this done.”

He nodded. “I’m gonna get my gloves.”

She smiled and kept raking.

In the garage, he looked around, unable to remember where his gloves were. He found them behind her gardening tools. 

Another car sped by.

“Did you see that?” he asked.

She stopped raking and looked at him, the sun catching the lines on her face.

“It’s getting worse,” he said.

“No, it’s not.”

He snorted. It just hung there.

He put the gloves on, grabbed the bucket, and climbed the ladder again, bracing against the wind. He moved faster, leaving leaves he’d usually collect. When satisfied, he stowed the ladder behind the garage. Breathing hard, he grabbed a rake and joined her.

“I’m almost done,” she said.

“I know.”

Together, they filled the tarp with leaves. He dragged it to the street. They loaded the rest, and he dragged that, too.

They put the rakes and tarp in the garage. Inside, they made coffee and sat on the couch, still warm from the work, looking out at the front yard.

“This is good coffee,” she said.

“Yup.” The yard looked settled. “Twenty-three years. And I still forget where you keep the gloves.”

She smiled. “Remember how bad the house was when we bought it?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “What a wreck.”

“I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Me either.”

They drank in silence, letting the years settle around them.

“Christmas decorations should go up soon,” she said.

“Yeah. Before it gets colder.”

“It used to be colder this time of year.”

He nodded and sipped his coffee.

Another car sped past, ignoring the stop sign.

“What about that?” he said.

“Yeah. They were flying.”

“Exactly. You never used to see that kind of driving.”

“Oh, please. I was scared whenever the kids played out there.”

“I don’t remember that.”

She swirled the last bit of coffee in her mug. “You don’t remember a lot these days.”

He looked at her. The smile she gave him was small and sad, like she hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“I just meant the street,” he said, after a moment. 

“I know.”

Another car rolled through the stop sign.

“Sometimes I think you’re not really here,” she said. “Even when you are.”

He didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his thumb along the rim of his mug. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

She didn’t say anything. She picked a leaf off his sleeve.

He looked down at her hand, then outside – the wind lifting leaves in little spirals, dancing like they were trying to remember something.

He put his arm around her, holding her tight, and they watched the street together.

*   *   *

Tom Dilworth works as a pharmacist and writes fiction in the margins of the day.  His stories explore the challenges and triumphs of human connection.  His work has appeared in the Raven’s Perch, ArLiJo, and The Bryant Literary Review, and is forthcoming in The Penseive.  He lives in Wauwatosa, WI.