March 2022: Death Leaves - Catherine Craig
“You’ll take care of it, won’t you Jilly?” Dad sat in his wheelchair on the front porch gazing over the crops. His oxygen tank hummed like the taxi harvester that lulled me to sleep as a child. The plant's ripe tips swayed in the late afternoon breeze. Browned, paper thin lugs, the lowest leaves and the least valuable, already lay on the soil.
“Hm hm.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. This crop, that had provided for me and our family for so long, had bought me the Spanish Cabbage Patch Doll and the Pound Puppy and all the things I cherished, year in, year out, was going to die.
“You’ve missed the lugs and the cutters, Jilly. But there’s still plenty of time before Easter to get the rounds done on the subleaf and the tips.” He lifted his face toward the horizon and smiled at the lavender sky. It was mid March, still plenty of time left in the season. I bit my lip. I’d be doing nothing with those leaves, except watching them turn the colour of parched hide and fall from the stalks.
I nodded and let the silence stretch between us. The car wouldn’t be too far away. But I needed to find a way to tell him.
As if on cue, a white van crackled on the driveway, spitting gravel and ambling past the fields. It didn’t draw dad’s gaze and he made no move to prepare himself.
“You aren’t going to pick the leaves, are you Jilly?”
My breath caught. “I...” But I couldn’t finish the lie. “Look at what it’s done to you.” He rubbed a leathery hand across his bald head, causing his nose prongs to dislodge. I gently readjusted them, my face fixed in a sad smile.
“Are you disappointed in me?” I asked, tensing, ready for the blow. It was in my genes to avoid that sinking feeling of knowing I’d disappointed him.
The van pulled to a stop outside the porch and a man in white lowered the tailgate, allowing for dad’s wheelchair to roll in when he was ready.
“I could never be disappointed in you, love. It’s all yours now.” He fixed me with a faux stern face. “Just don’t sell it. Or at least have the decency to wait until I die.” Then he laughed, his happy, husky bark like a warm hug.
“Ryegrass. I’m going to plant ryegrass.”
“Good-o, Jilly.” He nodded. “Let’s get on with this then.” He unlocked his wheels and pushed off. I reached to guide him down the ramp and into the van. I followed the van, my car heavy with his luggage, and took one last glance at the crop. Tobacco, the leaf of death. Let those leaves fall, then I can bring life back to this farm.
April’s Right Left Write short fiction competition is open now - prompt: At The Bar. Submissions of short fiction (max. 500 words) close 30 April - submit your entry.
Right Left Write’s March prompt was Falling Leaves.