Rain dislodges leaves and sends them dripping and dropping into the backyard, which is already covered with them. Nothing like the old days, when we would wade through them ankle deep, but still a presence, a reminder of the season. 

When I look at the leaves from my upstairs window, I see a palimpsest, a manuscript that tells two stories, the lines on top and the faint scratches beneath: a new story and an older one. I see the yard as it is now, but I also see the yard of yore, little girls jumping into piles of brown and gold. 

Those little girls are grown. Now their children come to jump in the leaves, to bounce on the trampoline, to run and dance and play. But when I look at the yard I don’t just see the newest little people, I see the ones that are no more, the young women who are once again the children I knew them to be.