I move down the leaf-strewn walkway to the steps leading to the porch. It’s time for Mom and me to rake and bag again, I remind myself. I look up at the two large red oaks on the lawn patches bordering the walkway. Clusters of red leaves—some yellowish—still cling to the mostly bare branches. Enough for at least one more raking before winter. The fallen leaves have lost most of their color, and there’s a faint scent of mold hovering in the air.

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     I pull myself up 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 asked her to move in with me and sell the old house, but she insisted on staying here with her memories. 

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     I swing the screen door and open the solid one behind it, letting sunlight into the darkened entry hall. Then I sit on the frayed cushion of the farther chair and gently rock. 

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     No need to call out; she’ll know I’m here, because she’s expecting me. 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 would never miss this time,” I’ll say, giving her needed reassurance. Like me, she’s not afraid of living alone, but she treasures affirmation.  

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     Later, we will reach for the two rakes, still leaning against one of the trees. There’s no breeze, so it should be easy. Into little piles, until the yard below is exposed. I’ll hold the bag while she nudges the piles inside. About five or six bags should be enough for the small expanse. Maybe an hour and a half of work. “Raking is harvesting memories,” she said the last time we did this. “You should snatch them before they fall,” I laughed.

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     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. 

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     I stop rocking, listen for any sound of movement. 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 near the corners and on the ceiling fan. The bare wood floor. I recoil at the sour taste of sudden recollection.

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