i almost want to let the leaves lie, the ones that have blown in through the open door on november breezes, the ones that erase the line between inside and out. the stories of my childhood seem to live in those erased lines, all my favorite characters neither here nor there. i lived in the pages of books, in balloons and boxcars and thatched roof houses, my imaginary gardens a mess of flowers and food, my snowfalls lit by moonlight and stars, my yard just a part of the forest, leaves and cats and birds on wing calling my home theirs. i never questioned where the teacups came from.
real life sunday, and it is warm - barefoot warm, in the 80s, bright sunshine, no sleeves. the heater is off, windows and doors open, the real life cat in and out and in again, asleep on the couch. hallmark christmas movies come and go on the television and piles of laundry await their turns to come clean. across the street, byron was up early, raking his leaves, no noisy blower disturbing the day. here, in the house where i live, we have swept the sidewalks clean, and stairs and porches, but everywhere else belongs to the leaves. there is no sense in trying to control them, to box them in - the yard is too big and we are anyhow cleaning inside. we talk of moving my mother's picnic table to the yard for thanksgiving, a white tablecloth tossed across it, or maybe christmas day. on a day like today, it seems quite perfect and possible.
as i type those words, a sparrow flies into the house and awakens the cat.
i am in love with this day.