A dry leaf All that is left is a dry brown leaf, marked by tiny teeth marks. My hand trembles as I hold it, those marks talk to me, tell me of her joy. She loved leaves, would sit for hours in front of the flywire door watching brown, dry leaves dancing in little eddies on the side of the house, beating a cantata of brittleness. I hold the leaf and I feel her, a coat softer than possum fur. She was small but feisty, her voice penetrating my mind, my peace. I still hear her in the sounds of…