Some memories are like early fall’s leaves. Red, coral, gold. Yellow dappled with green. Round, smooth- edged birch leaves, almost lemony-yellow. Jagged-edged, tough golden beech leaves, veined and oblong. The classic, red/gold/orange sugar maples, the kind of fall leaf children draw when asked to draw the Platonic Fall Leaf. Blood red, delicate Japanese maple leaves, straight out of a Hiroshige woodcut print. Red oak leaves, the more delicate, branch-like arms of the leaves a deep, almost maroon red in some lights. These leaves, on and off the tree, are cause for rejoicing—they’re ready to be picked over, collected, set into pleasing arrangements of happy colors and thoughts of when they provided you shade in the heat of summer, green-shielded you from rain in early spring and during late August’s thunderstorms, dappled you with warm sunlight in the breeze as you lay underneath, admiring the view. There are as many memories as there are early fall leaves, each one distinct, and colorful, and welcome. The whish-whish-whish as you walk through the leaves piled along memory lane, admiring the ones on the ground and the ones overhead yet to fall is a sensory experience, almost an overload, with the colors, the cool air, the warm smell, almost like baking.

They’re pretty, on the tree and on the ground. We like to admire them where they fall—they’re pleasing to the eye, a reminder of how as time marches on, there are some things you can count on, like colorful leaves in the fall, and memories of how they were when they were younger

The leaves of late fall are a different matter. Dried, leathery white oak leaves, bloated indistinct shapes like a brutalist artist might draw—those leaves are dull brown and tough. The other leaves, other types, are now dried up, their colors faded, their supple texture lost. These memories are no longer malleable. They are what they are, and you’re stuck with them. They must be cleaned up, or the things underneath them will rot, fail to grow, fail to thrive. It’s only after you’ve cleaned them off, scratched the surface underneath, that new, better memories can be made. These dried up old leaves smell almost like urine as they become sodden and wet with November’s cold rains. They bog down, hold in dirt and detritus, unpleasant flotsam and jetsam of the past and the present intermingling with their breath stealing layers, their weight. Leaves and memories are ephemeral, we like to think—they shouldn’t be so heavy, so permanent. We should be able to rake them up handily, and throw them away. But who hasn’t been surprised, shocked, even, by how heavy a seemingly simple bag of wet leaves can be? If you overload it, don’t clean up carefully, assessing the weight of the memories as you clean them up, measure them out into their proper receptacles, then the bag, the bough, the bin breaks, and all the work that we’ve tried to do to clean up spills back on the pavement. The sodden, malodorous memories spill all over our shoes, into the edges between our pants and our socks, all over the area we’ve just cleaned.

There’s no magic leaf blower, no all encompassing rake that will haul these old leaves away with a single, cleansing pass. There’s no old leaf killer chemical to make them dissolve in an instant. Instead, we have to rake each individual leaf with our small, handheld rakes, combing carefully to make sure we get them all, and put them into piles that we can then gather into their proper final receptacles. There’s nothing for it. Each individual leaf has to be dealt with on its own terms. Sometimes they’ll gather with others under the gentle pressure of the rake. Others will yield to more forceful scraping, gathering with the other stubborn, ground clinging leaves once more attention is brought to bear upon them. Some, though, will require us to stoop over, inspect the individual leaf from the ground, pick it up with our bare hands before we can be rid of it.

Putting our now-raked leaves in piles isn’t enough, though. We need to protect the piles, deal with them as we work, rather than leave them alone, trusting as we move on to another pile that the last one will stay organized. There’s no guarantee. Some person with no regard for all the work we’ve just done will come along and jump right into the pile while our backs are turned, scattering all our hard work and leaving us to clean up after them, because we let them in by not keeping an eye on the pile, or cleaning it up before they could come along and do damage.

Predictable, inconvenient, boundary-ignoring, work-disrespecting, pile-jumping people aren’t the only thing to worry about. Random strong gusts of wind, out of nowhere, unpredictable, uncontrollable, are always an option—maelstroms of unexpected force coming in, snatching the leaves out of their piles and scattering them, whirling them into a cyclone that blinds us, obscures our view of what’s in front of us and the work that needs to be done in the future. The swirling, scattering leaves in great masses make it impossible to move forward, to do more work raking leaves until the wind has passed again. And when it does, the leaves are scattered all over again, leaving us to look on in dismay at the scene now before us, once things calm down again. All that hard work, scattered, and now we have to start over again, though our hands are sore from the rake handle, our backs and the backs of our thighs tired from leaning over to stuff armfuls of leaves into receptacles, our hands and feet muddy from digging up the stubborn, smelly wet bits.

It’s harder to rake up leaves that second, or third, or nth time, if we don’t learn our lesson about taking the time to dispose of each pile of leaves as we go.