One afternoon early in November, David Sanborn was raking leaves with his son, Michael. It was the type of afternoon that made one think of high school football and hot chocolate and pretty girls in scarves; the sun was bright yet blunted, the wind crisp, and the lone maple tree in David’s front yard was clinging to her last, browning leaves. The air was dry and smelled faintly, David thought, of burning leaves and hot dogs. It was the type of afternoon that made him feel like a kid again.

David was thirty-one, his trimmed brown hair slightly thinning but not yet noticeably. He was short, but broad in the shoulders, and his stomach had not yet acquired the paunch of middle age. He had worked up a sweat raking and shed his fleece. Now he wore only a white t-shirt and a pair of twice worn jeans he bought at a thrift store. Michael was four, his birthday having been two weeks before, and his mother, Claire, had bundled him up in a bulky, neon green and orange winter jacket. His head, slightly bulbous, David thought, was covered with a stocking cap that was pulled down, almost covering his razor sharp blue eyes.

The raking had been Claire’s idea. The weather since Halloween had been cold and rainy, rotting the jack-o-lanterns that sat on the Sanborn’s concrete front stoop. The rain had also shed the maple of most of its leaves, and with the help of the bitter Iowa wind, deposited them the length of the Sanborn’s long but narrow front yard. Waking this morning, and finally seeing the sun, David decided it was a perfect day for college football It was, but his wife had other plans.

“Why don’t you take Michael outside and rake a bit?” she had said over a late breakfast of sausage links and hash browns. “He’s been a bit stir crazy lately, I think. And the yard’s a mess.”

“What about tomorrow?” David said. “Iowa plays Ohio State today. It’s a big game.”

Claire kissed her husband on the cheek. “Please, sweetheart.”

Of course, David knew he didn’t have much choice in the matter. So after watching the opening kick off, which Ohio State ran back for a touchdown, he emerged from the basement and trudged, unhappily, outside with his son to rake the front yard.

He wasn’t quite sure how to rake with a four year old. The only rakes they had were both tall, wooden contraptions warped from years of being left out behind the garage, and Claire worried they might give Michael splinters. David solved this, however, by giving his son a pair of work gloves that practically covered half of his arm.

Still, David was finding his son to be more of a hindrance than anything. Michael was relatively short for his age, and the rake overwhelmed him as he swung it about helplessly. He fell over twice, tumbling softly into the dead leaves. And every so often, whenever David happened to collect a large enough pile of leaves to bag, his son would immediately plow through them, waving his stubby arms about, bellowing with joy- and scattering the leaves everywhere. David was frustrated. He just wanted to watch football and have a beer.

Finally, a third pile destroyed, David called his son over.

“Buddy, I need you to stop jumping into the leaves.”

“Why, dad?”

“Well, because I need to clean them up. How about this. After we get most of these cleaned up, we’ll make one big pile and jump in that together, ok?” David said.

His son shook his head obstinantly, and David sighed. Kids. Without thinking, he picked up a leaf and started to crumble it between his fingers.

“What’s that dad?” Michael asked.

David looked up, having been unaware of what he was doing.

“Oh,” he said, throwing the leaf down and wiping his hands on his jeans. “It’s nothing. Let’s get back to work, squirt.” But he saw his son watching him intently, so he picked up another leaf. It was too leathery, he decided, and he scrounged through the pile before finding a dry, cracked leaf. He put it between his fingers and held it up before his son’s face.

“Ok, pick up a leaf,” he said. His son picked one up, holding it between his fingers the same as his father. “Now,” David said, “rub your fingers together. Like this.” He rubbed the leaf between his fingers and it started to crumble and break into fragments. “Yeah, just like that,” he said as his son followed suit. “Now,” he said, “if you keep rubbing it like this, it’ll turn into dirt.” David crumpled the pieces of dead leaf harder, turning them into a fine dust and letting them fall from his hand and flutter to the ground.

“Neat, huh?” he said. But Michael was still looking at his leaf, slowly mashing it between his pudgy fingers. His face was bewildered.

“Why does it turn into dirt?” Michael finally asked.

“Because it’s dead,” David said.

Michael looked up, his blue eyes wide and glassy. He looked as if he were about to cry.

“It’s dead?” David’s son said, his voice wavering.

“Well, yeah. It’s winter. Leaves die in winter.”

“Why?” Michael asked. “Why do leaves die?”

David was unsure of how to answer, and he picked up another leaf and studied it’s brown, veiny skin.

“Well everything has to die, buddy. Leaves, trees. Even us.”

He immediately regretted having said this.

Michael looked at his father, and then back at his half crumbled, dead leaf. His mind seemed to be churning, trying to grasp what David was telling him. After a moment, he looked up at his father.

“Why do things have to die?” he asked.

David opened his mouth to talk, but then closed it. His son, he thought, looked so small and helpless, so fragile. Someday, he too would die. This thought made David’s throat choke, and he felt his eyes well. His son’s eyes were still on him, and David had to say something. He had already ruined his son’s belief in immortality, he didn’t want to ruin his belief in his father’s infallibility just yet.

“Well, Michael, things die I think because,” he paused, collected his thoughts, then started again. “Things die because they have to for other things to live. Like these leaves. They turn into dirt and then in the spring, they help new leaves and plants grow. And that’s what happens to everything. When me and you and mom die, we’ll turn into dirt, too, and help things grow.”

Michael looked lost.

“Do you understand?” David asked. His son nodded. David smiled and brought his son in close. He hugged him.

“So dad?” Michael asked, his face raw and cold pressed tight against David’s unshaven cheek.

“Yes?”

“We don’t really die then, right?”

David laughed, and he felt himself start to cry. “No, I guess we don’t, do we?”

Michael let go of his father’s neck and looked at him, smiling.

“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t want to die.”

“Me either,” David said. Then he tackled his son into the leaves, rolling around in them, completely ruining the pile they had created.

They never finished raking. Claire came outside, having seen her husband and son rolling on the ground. David grabbed her by the legs and dragged her down with them. She laughed, her son jumping on top of her. David kissed her. They played in the leaves together, and, after a while, once they grew cold, they went inside to eat pumpkin pie and drink apple cider.

Later that night, after dinner at his parent’s house, David lay in bed unable to sleep. Next to him, Claire snored lightly. Their room was abnormally dark; it was a moonless night. Around one, David went outside and took a walk. When he arrived home, he made a drink. He drank it standing in his son’s doorway. He stood there for quite sometime, staring into the blackness. He finished the drink, but it didn’t help. David was wide awake.