“Can we play in the leaves, Daddy?” she asks whimsically.
“Sure we can, baby. I’ll get the blower.”
Eyes full of wonder, her mind races as she builds on her request. “Can you make a pile big enough that I can jump out of the window onto them?”
I laugh. As a manchild, I give due consideration. As a father, I respond, “No, I don’t think that would be safe.”
Undaunted, she pokes out her lip as last children often do in an overt attempt to tug at my heart. “Please…”
Why didn’t I do it?
Why did I say no?
We live in the woods. Acres of trees. Why would I ever have turned her down?
I didn’t know what was just on the horizon, just past that season. I didn’t know it was her last healthy fall. I was concerned about her safety. I was worried about what her mother would do to me if her baby broke her leg during a dad-sanctioned event.
I said no.
Soon her leg would hurt on its own, and poison much more dangerous than a jump into a pile of autumn leaves would course through her veins. I should have let her jump before cancer pushed aside those carefree joys of childhood. I should have raked up every damn leaf in the city and made a soft blanket to cushion her fall. Instead I said no.
We are heading into our second holiday season without Kylie. We won’t get a turkey drawn with crayons, and we won’t be recognized as something for which she is thankful. She won’t rush to the fireplace to see the note from Santa or tear through wrapping paper to see what he left. The “wonts” pile up like leaves in the fall, but without their vibrant brown, orange, and yellow hues… without the familiar smell of the season that turns our thoughts toward home. Our “wonts” are black and gray.
The holidays are tough and begin with the changing of the trees. For me, there is symbolism in the process. The leaf springs forth, grows to its proper size and shape before withering and falling to the ground. While the tree remains and grows, that individual leaf is gone. The tree may whisper to future leaves about their predecessors. Maybe a tree keeps a record of its life deep within its bark so it can boast of mighty branches and remember leaves that fell to earth prematurely. We will have to do that. Our family tree will grow to include branches that never knew Kylie – never saw her smile, never heard her sing. They will know her only through our stories and memories. That saddens me.
It’s the leaves.
You ask me what challenge comes with the season, and I answer that it is the leaves. They bring this season. They usher in Halloween with its costumes and candy and they warn us of what is coming: Thanksgiving and Christmas. I blame the leaves and I blame myself sometimes for not building a pile of them and saying, “Anything you want, baby.”
Anything you want.
And so, how will I respond?
I intend on building a massive pile of leaves and throwing caution to the wind. I will jump. I will invite others to join me. And I will live fully until it is my time to wither. Then the tree can tell its stories, but I will be gone with her — slaves to the wind and rain no more.
*I wanted to store this here on my blog. It was originally written for The Mighty as a response to the question: “For those who are grieving, what challenges come with the change in season?”
A Generous Helping 
Many things I could say but the best is just Hugs to you and have fun in the leaves.
We will enjoy the leaves for sure! And take pictures.
Beautiful capture – I have so many wise things I’d like to say, but there is nothing I could say that would be considered wise. Being the mom, I would have made the same call.
I’ll just simply send you happy vibes. I know that Kylie does, too. ❤
Build your leaf pile. That’s my take away.
I do every year ❤
“For those who are grieving, what challenges come with the change in season?”
((hugs))
The turning is tough. hugs accepted.
Thanks Mark for sharing it here. These are your special important feelings! If you will accept a hug, I am sending one. There are no words adequate to answer your question, because they all fail. None can change your question. When I see leaves falling, I will think of you & Kylie. Your Father Heart is enormous!
Thank you, Margy. I appreciate the hug greatly
Alexander was only 21 months old when he died, and in the 13 months he fought the STUPID cancer beast, he was in the hospital for 250 days. He only played in the leaves once and he didn’t care for it much (he was about 5 months old). We have a LOT of “he never did”. I have (for the most part) moved past that. However, where I struggle now is Saying no to his sisters. My youngest doesn’t talk yet. But the 4.5 does. There is a lot of “one more story. Please play outside. Please let me play in the mud”. I have rational reasons to say no. “It is bed time. It is too cold. I don’t want mud in the house”. But then the irrational part of me thinks “what if she gets cancer and dies and I had said no.” I am sure it will be a life long struggle there.
I treat Kylie’s sisters differently. Much more patience and fewer rules. Of course, they are older. But I don’t think it would matter. Not even because they might get cancer, but just because… Enjoy them!
Beautiful! Sending you a hug and a smile. When I think of you jumping out the window into the leaves, I know, and you do as well, Kylie will be smiling her beautiful smile watching from heaven above. :))
I might just do it. I’m not allowed on ladders anymore.
Beautiful….just beautiful. The next time one of the grand-kids asks me to build them a pile of leaves….. I will know not to say no.
gather every one, Greg. I think you knew that though.
hugs and blowing leaves to all of you –
stack them up and jump!
Such a wobderful post. mark. One born from memories to treasure.
Thank you. It is for sure
I’m heartened to see you can look back while still moving forward, Mark.
Carry on, good sir.