Daryl Scroggins

Leaf Drama

At a certain time of day, a square of light strikes a dim wall in the living room, and Grandmother mistakes it for the television. Since the light travels first through wind-jostled shrubbery, there is always something happening on that screen-something familiar but always on the edge of focus. She watches and laughs occasionally, or covers her mouth in mild shock, following the story. When the falls asleep, I begin to watch: characters pause, venture across the stage-then rush back in a panic. Off-stage, they peek back in and timidly reassemble. But something rushes them from the other side, and they fall shivering under the onslaught. Grandmother opens her eyes like she never closed them. And we both watch, sometimes pointing at our favorite parts. When Father arrives, light floods in and we glare at him. But he closes the door quietly with his shoulder-then tiptoes across the room to the kitchen. And we turn back to the show.