A Funeral in November

by Sydney Flaherty

This time of year the sky is always gray and the air claws at red cheeks. Cecilia stands in a long sleeve shirt and jeans, her white hair blowing in the wind. She feels numb and doesn’t notice her smoky breath or the way her teeth chatter in rhythm.

To combat the icy November, Cecilia is armed with a rake. After occupying a dark corner of Cecilia’s garage all summer, the rake’s teeth are wrapped in strings of dust. Cecilia barely makes out the wisps beginning to fly in the air.

The trees in Ceclia’s backyard are bare and ugly; all of their leaves are on the ground, begging to be put back in place, begging to restore the beauty that’s been lost. Cecilia can’t glue them back on or string them up. So instead she resolves to rake them away, to pile them neatly and stop this ugly cycle.

The trees are screaming at Cecilia, “Give them back to us.” They are sobbing. She can remember when the trees were young, vibrant with reds and oranges and yellows. She understands better than most how painful it is to watch all the beautiful pieces of yourself as they drop one at a time. This season is stalking Cecilia, following her around like a ghost. She wants to get rid of it. Cecilia wants to wash this body off with a stone, scrubbing and scratching until the only thing left is bright red, oozing flesh and clean blood. She wants to pile up the leaves, saving each and every one. She wants to yell at the ghost—she wants to tell it not to come any closer. The trees are not good and beautiful anymore. Cecilia hates them for it. They faded and became brittle one morning when she wasn’t looking. Cecilia wishes someone would have told her in advance; she would have used more moisturizer and taken more pictures. She would have held onto the compliments and mornings just a little tighter. She’s trying to hold on now, piling each moment higher and higher.

It is easy work, raking the leaves. Cecilia tells herself the trees are happy with her. With a rightful burial for their dead youth, Cecilia honors all they used to be. She tells them, “Don’t worry, I know how it feels to get old, too.”

Her hands are so cold they have frozen to the worn, wooden handle of the rake, but Cecilia doesn’t notice. She gave up on her body a long time ago. She lets her brittle, worn fingers turn to stone.

It takes Cecilia about an hour to realize the ground is no more clean than when she started raking. Everything looks the same except for the pile of rotting leaves in the middle of her yard. She continues anyway.

Thirty minutes later, she still hasn’t seen grass. As soon as she moves a row of leaves, more fall to take their place. Cecilia looks up at the bare trees and the gray sky and can’t tell where they’re falling from. She keeps going.

Cecilia moves the rake slowly; as soon as a leaf is moved, another is added. Cecilia moves the rake fast, but not fast enough; the leaves match her pace.

Cecilia’s arms are heavy and taut, moving with a purpose they haven’t had since before she retired. Her breathing matches the pace, unsteady and gasping. Calluses are forming on her palms and Cecilia is holding onto the rake like a crutch; it steadies her enough to keep going. The pile of leaves now reaches above her fence.

Cecilia cannot stop. Her body screams for water and food and rest but she is not listening. It feels nice to not listen for once. Her movements are becoming jerky and relentless; it’s like she’s killing something. Blood runs down the rake’s handle like a river, flowing from the burst blisters on her hands. The sky is laughing at Cecilia, asking her why she needs to delay the inevitable. Why must she rake the leaves into neat piles, knowing they will continue to fall? Why must she order and preserve each thing as it passes by? Doesn’t she know some things can’t be stopped?

Cecilia wants to scream at the trees and the wind and the clouds that block out the sun. She wants to tell them she isn’t crazy, that the trees used to be pretty and she used to be pretty, and that if she holds all of them right here then maybe she can still stop this full death. If she can just hold on to the parts that once made her young, made her alive. She is so focused on the leaves she doesn’t notice the leaf pile creeping up behind her. It happens so gradually that she can’t feel their brittle edges as they caress her face and wipe her tears and sweat. She has been looking down all this time, shoving the endless leaves to the pile behind her. She didn’t know that the pile was beginning to block out the sky and the meager light it provided. Cecilia is tearing at the leaves, ripping them to shreds, when she realizes it is pitch black and the wind is not hitting her like it

Cecilia’s warm breath ricochets off the walls of leaves and hits her face. Her hands have finally let go of the rake. She sits down for the first time in a while. Her body feels as though it is made of wood. She thought she would be scared, clawing her way through with blood on her teeth. Instead, she notices that she is tired and closes her eyes. She is finally warm.