I used to stomp on the leaves and watch them crunch: exoskeletons popping at the force of my mighty little foot. I loved how they’d gather themselves in piles at the edges of the road, swept into the corners in great fluffy heaps. And I would hop to school guided by their path, bouncing, bounding, barely touching the concrete. Best of all: I remember their smell, how it lofted up into the air and swirled around with the dry breeze, spiraling, how it sweetened as time went on. I remember my heart fluttering on those chilly October mornings. I’d look up and see the whole world mirror the feeling back: The maples trembling in gold, crimson, amber, purple; the leaves scurrying beneath, a frantic wave for attention. 

I walked to school alone; I never was alone.

—

I remember the giant red Maple under my childhood best friend’s house, a beacon of refuge. Its arms lofted lazily just above, beckoning us to climb up and up and up towards the never-ending top. Carly and I would drag rakes that were feet taller than us across the yard till we’d combed up a big tall pile. We would hoist each other up to the nearest branch and take turns flopping onto the big crunchy stack. I remember the dirt gathering on my hands, neck, arms, legs, ankles, remember how I wore it like new perfume, a fresh coat of skin I glowed in. A million small palms stroking my skin, a cushion for my worries and fears. With every leap I could release myself a little further. I don’t remember how to get back to that feeling. 

—

The last fall I spent at home, I woke up most days feeling hollow: my skin nothing more than a husk of bark. Life moved passively, a tape unwinding for an empty theater. The oaks got louder–a thousand whispers of words indecipherable. The Hemlocks shook so much I thought they might chase after me. The Ash trees were pleading for attention in peachy ink. And the Red Maple in front of Carly's house was no longer a tree, but a stump. Her yard lay vacant of our deep purple handprints. 

Sometimes I’d wish I could trade places with the leaves, shining then falling then crunching then rotting. I respected them for the dramatic flare they died with, their demand for recognition. Look at me; admire me. I could never do that. Fields of gold falling before my feet. All I could do was run and hope and watch. Wishing. 

—

Vermont made me so angry sometimes. I knew the feeling of November too well: The slump of brown leaves, weighing the aching arms of oak trees down, exhaustion echoing in the thick, still 

air.

I wore stress like a weighted coat, carrying its heavy woolen burden wherever I went.  But in October I’d look outside, and she’d be shining her colors and smiling her sunlight, and I’d have no choice but to let it all go.

—

It was sixty degrees outside and I felt like I was soaring through the sky, my feet pounding the soft, dry earth. It felt intimate. The wind a hand on my back, its firm push propelling me forward. I flew through fields and up hills, overlooking broad vistas where the world opened itself up and shone down on me. I was seventeen and I couldn’t find this feeling anywhere else: chasing the moment that would become the memory. Farms tucked into the crevices of hills, fat cows and frolicking sheep, the lake glittering with intensity beyond, leaves crumbling at the force of my own feet. 

—

When I was younger I wanted to fly. So I let the fall winds carry me. I’d take an umbrella outside to our picnic table and jump off over and over to the beat of the gusts. Whoosh, go! Whoosh, go! And every time I did, I swore it worked. Gravity pulling back, the horizon sitting still, my own eyes level with the rounded eyes of far-off mountains. The crab apple tree by our bench shook violently, as if trying to lend a leafy golden hand to keep me up. For an endless moment, my fifty pound self soared, suspended by my own hope. 

Now as I run through valleys and hills and mud and grass, the wind roars, cheering me on, and I can’t help but think that I’ve done it again. Is this what flying is? Are you looking? Look at me! I did it! The leaves wave back, a paper-palmed applause. But it is a momentary flush of relief, feeling filling the spaces down to my toes for a moment, gone with the next flush of wind. 

—

There is an Elizabeth David cookbook in my room, lined with wax paper pressings of leaves I’ve found and leaves I’ve kept. I flip through it now, scanning the various finds: perfectly symmetrical Maples, neon tangerine Oaks, sly palms of Ash. I hold them up to the light, feel my eyes baking in the warm tinge of their light, the smooth frame of veins, a tiny hand reaching towards. Their skin is paper, powder soft and smooth. If I am careful not to open the book too much, their smell still bellows out, hugging my nose and stoking the embers of memory. The sweet scent of decay, fingers folding inwards toward a grasp they’ll never reach.  When it hits me it hurts, knowing that another fall has passed through, and these leaves remain stuck: circa October, two thousand and nine. I wish I could crawl between the pages and lines, lie under the light cover of their soft palms.

—

It's happening again. The world is bleeding red and yellow, orange shooting from the skies. The wind roars. I can’t stay inside. I can’t stay. The leaves and I share this trait of constant motion, changing then turning then flying then falling. Except I embody imitation at best. Turn a corner, round a bush, hop a puddle, hit a car, skip school, drive drive drive, don’t look back! Blood rising to my face, my skin, spewing the red red red of fall skies, the whoosh of my own insignificance. 

A million tiny moments are flying above me, and I wonder how many will be raked into neat piles just to be scattered by children jumping, how many will be picked up and preserved between pages, how many will be crushed by little feet, how many will get tangled up in long hair, how many houses they may get swept into, how many swimming pools they may clog, how many shoes they will stick to. I wonder which lives they will weave their way through and give thanks that today they’ve chosen to bless mine. A thousand tiny hands wave back.

—

The sunset on Lake Champlain: a flat glass sheet shooting pink messages back up towards the sky. The world breathes orange like fire. My body sits in an exhausted heap on the stone shore, worn thin like the leaves in my book after a long day. I clutch the rocks beneath, feeling for the first time their papery familiarity, as if my childhood had been etched into the fine lines and cracks, passing calcified words through palms by the thud of a pulse. The water is littered with leaves, their silhouettes sailing silently, some folded over in prayer to the Adirondacks beyond. I pick up a red Maple by the stem, twirling its palm around between my fingers, fine lines run through veins. Bright painted fingers sprawl out, reaching, endlessly, towards nothing but thin air. When November comes the oaks, hemlocks, maples, and ash will be fast asleep, the pines waiting silently so as not to wake them. 

As the sun sinks lower, the water begins to breathe. The night-bugs awaken, crawling from their crevices and caves, sounding their sirens and clicking their tongues. The birds change shifts as well: daylight swallows flit back toward their homes, while nighttime crows caw out in delight that their hour is here. Suddenly it could be the middle of the night, and we all sit silently in the shadow of the moon. My own body changes too. My pupils dilate. My pulse slows. I feel the shifting gears of an ancient power-off routine I am ingrained to perform. 

And I know that I can never be like the leaves, flitting about so freely, but I can be like the trees: Rooted to my home, drinking up its sweet summers and freeing falls.