Autumn

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fences at school, rushing home without a bicycle because I love the crackling sound of leaves I step on.

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fence at home, calling for Mother to come out and see her cluttered yard. She hates raking in leaves that many. Maybe this year, she'll have Father do it.

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fence at Bessy's house, squealing with glee and playing with her under their own leafless maple.

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fence at Granny's house, running into her back door that leads to the kitchen where she makes the best of autumn rolls.

But today, the first day of fall, there is no more jumping over fences. There are only tears and goodbyes. There are huggings and kissings on the cheek. There are luggages around me, ready to be boarded onto the carriage.

Today, on the first day of fall, I am going to the city. Where fences become brick walls too high for jumping. Where leaves and maples do not grow and fall. Where tea and bread Bessy and Granny would be too far.

Today, on the first day of fall, I am what they call a growing lady. Who needs to lose all the playfulness and the naughtiness. Who needs less weight. Who needs more dreams.

How do I tell them that I am content with jumping over fences and the maple leaves?

Or do I even tell them?

Photo by: Swan Corner