She walks with a wide gait, toddling down the sidewalk. Pausing at a crunch underfoot, she bends to pick up a dried leaf, yellowed and brittle. She examines it, hands it to you as if a treasure you should keep. It crumbles at your touch, leaving only the spine between your fingers, frail leafy remnants rain down onto the concrete below.
She’s enthralled by it all, gesturing her chubby finger, exclaiming with a noise that captures the essence of “leaf” without sounding anything like the word. As you walk home she squeals for you to stop at every tree, at every fallen branch. She reaches out to the Japanese maple in your front yard, afire this time of year. It was the one tree you asked the contractor to salvage when your house was remodeled half a decade ago. He looked at you sideways at the time: Why bother? But you knew. This tree would color your fall joyous.
Her pupils constrict as she touches the feathery crimson tip of a maple leaf, five points splayed out in reverence. Her lips curl as she considers the velvet color. “Leaf. Leaf. Leaf.” You repeat it to her as a mantra, as if a reminder to yourself. Each year it all changes – summer warmth to fall crisp, winter hibernation to spring sprout – but the words remain constant. You want her to learn so it will steady her, a foothold to rely on in this revolving world. You know the cycle, the recurrent pattern that must proceed. This too, the brilliant chorus of colors dancing, will tumble. But its glory today, blazing in the late October sun, is enough for you both.