“I shake my head. I pick up the rake and start making the dead-leaf pile neater. A blister pops and stains the rake handle like a tear. Dad nods and walks to the Jeep, keys jangling in his fingers. A mockingbird lands on a low oak branch and scolds me. I rake the leaves out of my throat.Me: "Can you buy some seeds? Flower seeds?”

“My balls dangle so low that I need a rake to scratch them. It also comes in handy when raking up all the leaves on my scrotum.”

“If trees had love, instead of leaves, I’d gladly rake you into a pile on my lawn and fall into you.”

“They say kids are like sponges because they observe everything. I guess that makes teens and adults like mops because they're just as copycatish as kids are. Personally, I am more like a rake, I leave behind more than I pick up!”

“And while I got that about him, he never seemed to understand or believe it when I told him I wasn't like that. That I was happy to coast. To drift and summersault like a dried-out leaf in the late fall, hoping to avoid the rake, the collecting pile, the compost heap.”

“He watched me rake my fingers through the tangles in my hair and smiled. “Quit it. You’re fucking beautiful.”“Just point me to the nearest eighties rock video,” I said.”