Els van Leeuwen
Sydney, New South Wales, Australia
A pile of empty frames in my front yard is the fruit of a morning’s labour. My brother agrees I can’t keep on carrying our mother’s paintings each time I move. Pulling the staples from the canvases where they join their stretchers, we justify our actions in brief but exact acts of speech that are our love made manifest. We are thus forgiven, even as the difficulty of the task seems to indicate she never allowed for this. We let the staples fall on the floor. I’ve looked online about how to roll canvas and store it for posterity, but we both know it’s just another death. A breeze blows in the garage door. He sweeps up the staples. I roll a self-portrait and suggest a cup of tea.
the leaves that haven’t