o c t o b e r 2 0 1 8 1 0 9 Fiction Asja Boroš Red Leaf By Morgan Callan Rogers T he Halloween wind is bullying a fallen red leaf stuck in a crack be- tween two rocks in a stone wall lo- cated across the street. So far, it refuses to be blown away, and I admire its tenacity. I’m in the rocking chair in the kitchen with my daughter. “Do you know that leaf has been there for a couple weeks?” I call to her. She’s making us supper. She’s a good cook, except for her tendency to under-salt foods. She says too much of it isn’t good for me or for her father. “We’re ninety,” I tell her. “What the hell. Salt away.” But she’s al- ways followed her own recipes. The oven bell dings. She turns it off and walks over to me. “What leaf?” she asks. My hand trembles as I point to where it flutters like a bright rebel flag. “There,” I say. She squints. She’s nearsighted, like her father. She studies it for a long time. Finally, she says, “I don’t want to bust your bubble, Ma, but that’s a new surveyor’s ribbon. Re- member? Someone’s going to build a house in Lovett’s field, and they brought in the surveyors to mark the land.” I’d forgotten that. “Maybe,” I say, “but that’s a leaf if I’ve ever seen one.” “It’s not, Ma. And it’s pink, not red,” she says in her soft, Oh-the-poor-dear voice. “No, it’s not,” I spit back, equal parts em- barrassed and disappointed that I’ve been cheering on the fortitude of a plastic rib- bon. Then I concede. “You sure?” I ask. She hunkers down and takes my hand and rubs it for a minute because it’s always cold, and then she does the other one. She tells me it’s important to pay attention to both sides of your body. Sometimes we do a little stretching when she’s here. I don’t dare do it on my own because I’m pretty sure something will snap. “If you want it to be a red leaf then it’s a red leaf,” she says. She kisses my forehead and goes back to the oven. I’ve been patronized and dis- missed. Call me done. “Don’t forget to add some salt,” I grumble at her. “You never add enough salt.” I grab onto the handles of my walker, hoist myself out of the rocking chair and shuffle off to the living room with what’s left of my dignity. Every day, I’m reminded of all the ways my parts are failing my body. If they aren’t dried up, they’re leaking. I depend on dia- pers. One of my teeth fell out during supper the other night. Only a podiatrist can con- trol my unruly toenails. My skin is so thin I can see through to the thick river of blood trudging through my veins. I’m not se- nile yet, but a little pinch of madness might break up the monotony. I reach the living room where my hus- band is sleeping in his lounger. He sleeps more and more. We’ve angled his chair in front of the television set. He can’t see his sports shows straight on because he has macular degeneration—another sign that we’ve outlived our bodies. Masculine de- generation. Feminine degeneration. I can’t remember the last time either of us felt like fumbling through the mattress dance. My husband raised hell when he was younger. Not bad hell, like going out on me with another woman, but hell with his drink- ing buddies, his hunting buddies, or his bud- dies at the fraternal order of some animal or another. I had to call around to get him