Magnifying glass in hand, I burned glowing holes in the crisp, dried leaves, sending spiraling lines of smoke drifting skyward. In the streets, along the curb, we would mount up hills of them; igloo-like lumps to jump on and tunnel into.
These same heaps of leaves my ever-industrious father would later set aflame, dispatching his own dense clouds of smoke drifting down the block, saturating the neighborhood with a sweet aroma of earth.
We raked, in those days, by hand, using a long sticklike dowel bound by wire, the end of which curved with bamboo fingers, creating a giant claw for scooping up and rolling forward waves of dead leaves.
Curled leaves descending from crimson to brown, and a chill in the air marked the arrival of fall. It was the start of festivities, feasts, gifts, and snow. The falling brown giving way to the falling white, a cleansing of the branches and earth, a blue-white sky bleeding into the blue-white snow, blanching all color from the landscape.
I stand now, aged under the brilliant, sun-drenched sky; a torrent of color rains down. Sugar Maple and Pin Oak leaves brush my calloused fingertips. A strong breeze stirs the lawn. Waves of yellow and orange, red and green, cresting up high in places.
A storm of foliage that once flowed life into the branches of each tree now settles on the earth. So much scattered, lifeless parchment trapped under each leaf—an unrealized dream.
