Raking Leaves with Anneliese

She holds open ruptured bags as I heave loads of coloured leaves into their crinkled, paper mouths like a backhoe dropping dirt into a pit. The Stasi took my father into the night, she firmly sighs. I sent letters to the prison but I never heard a word. I note golden, scarlet foliage, fallen like unpicked apples. Some have twisting worms, limp as flimsy laces on my loosely-knotted shoes. She says mother stayed in sackcloth, with a veil that wouldn’t lift in public places. November’s biting wind scatters half our work away, our faces turning numb in waning light.

Andreas Gripp

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