It seems impossible, given the relentlessness with which I document your comings and goings, that I left my phone in the car as we walked up the path to Montessori the day before yesterday on a warm and glistening sunny autumn day. The giant tree in the front lawn was aflame with orange, and when the wind kicked up the leaves drifted down slowly like snow, painting an orange carpet over the grass. You stopped, transfixed, staring at the leaves. You grinned and me and pointed back at the tree. You let go my hand and waded into some leaves, staring with an open-mouthed smile as they drifted down, slowly.
Instead of watching video of you in this moment I must settle for remembering it, and seeing the expression of pleasure and wonder and excitement on your face as you felt the breeze take you up and take up the leaves and swirl them around and flutter them down to the earth.
When we went back to school today, after yesterday's holiday, the tree was denuded, all the leaves in a thick carpet on the grass, heralding the coming of winter.
These are transitory pleasures, that we are living. But we are here. And we remember.
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