The day is cool and clear, and the golden rainbow of leaves against the brilliantly blue sky are the perfect backdrop for a fall memory or two. We are walking along the path next to the river– two boys and me. We have been searching for pine cones and acorns and sticks shaped like guns (a new obsession for my pirate-loving darlings), but now we’re just walking.
Well, technically I am walking. They are scampering, skipping, running, chasing. They are boys in the fall after all. And they are not weighed down with their mother’s painful joints or sense of propriety.
It’s all right though. I’m okay today being behind them, watching them as the interact along the path by the water under that shining sky and those warm-hued leaves.
They are my miracle, and every day I fear I am teaching them wrong or not enough, and every day I doubt myself and question each choice I make on their behalf.
But then I am given a moment like this– just a moment before they come rushing back to me full of tales of squirrels and spider webs and races run– and I am at peace for that moment. Because they are joy, and the sky is smiling at us, and the river laughs as it slips by, and the leaves rub their crackled hands together in applause at the beauty of life.
And all I can really do is smile and laugh and clap along with them.