In the final hours of the day, between school and dinner, under yesterday afternoon’s cerulean blue sky, two of my grandchildren set out to build “the biggest pile of leaves in the world.” I sat nearby on the slightly damp grass, my arms resting around my bent knees, and watched the children running back and forth across the crunchy, leaf-strewn lawn, screaming in delight, and carrying large bunches of dry, crackly leaves tight against their chests. 

The elder of the two children dropped her most recent collection onto the pile as she pointed upward and cried, “Look!” Far away, up against the deep blue sky, a massive orange leaf was being carried off by the wind as it flew from the tall trees populating the woods behind my house. “Wow,” said the four-year-old, like he meant it.  

The brilliance of the orange leaf against the deep expanse of blue felt like something out of this world. Long enough for the three of us to breath in and out. Long enough to appreciate its beauty. Long enough to witness a miracle. Long enough to share it with one another. Long enough for the leaf to disappear finally, once and for all, behind a tall, golden maple. The world stood still for a moment.

The children turned to me, and then agreed that it was time to start the jumping phase of their project.