In the open woods behind our house, nestled between palmettos and tall slash pines, is a pile of leaves in a kaleidoscope of fall colors that stands out against the green scene we’re used to in October.
The pile is mostly flattened now, leaves tangled in dried needles, but the colors are still there, even two days after we scattered them. They’re foreign to Florida’s landscape, but they’re home to me. And every October since Lainey was a baby, we wait for them to arrive–delivered to our doorstep from the UPS man. I check the return address, see my cousin’s name and the promise of what’s inside with two little letters: MI. Michigan made it to my babies once again in a box that holds tradition and memories and family, and things I want them to know–the smell of a northern fall, the way one small Maple leaf can hold sixteen different colors, the happiness that comes from getting rained on by freckled yellow leaves that flutter to the ground in slow motion.
My kids are all old enough to have enough of these October memories stashed that they know the drill. They run to find “fall clothes” and meet me outside. We walk together to the woods and huddle around the box while I carefully open it. I pull the tape off the sealed bag, give it a shake and watch it expand with leaves awakening from their postal journey.
“Oh my goodness,” I say. “I think this is the best box yet. Look at all those colors.”
And then the moment they’ve been waiting for–I tip the bag upside down and release hundreds of vivid presents onto the ground.
“Ahhhh–smell that? That’s heaven.”
“Have at it! Jump in! Throw them! Make it rain!”
And I watch, in pure contentment, as my kids experience a sliver of happiness from my childhood home.
It’s officially fall.
We have a big Halloween party tonight and a sleepover that will, no doubt, keep us up late. So another cup of coffee is in order, and I may just take it to the woods for one more inhale of that heavenly pile of home. They’ll be fading fast.
Happy Friday. Happy Fall.
