Autumn Footprints

On my doorstep is a large pile of maple leaves. I used to love jumping right into the pile after Abba swept it up so neatly. When it was wet outside, the mushy leaves would make this beautiful squelching sound as my polka-dotted rubbers landed in the heap, and my brother and I would jump and laugh until Abba would come to see what the fuss was about, and then he’d yell at us for undoing the past hour of hard work. I never understood why people rake up leaves anyway. I thought the sight of the red and gold leaves made the dull concrete look like a wedding aisle, only with autumn leaves scattered in lieu of pink petals.

I still feel the urge to jump into the pile. I still feel like that rosy-cheeked, pigtailed little girl clad in denim and rubbers. I don’t look much like her anymore though, I realize as I step inside and face the hallway mirror. A strange adult stares back at what should have been my reflection. A sophisticated adult wearing a brown tweed suit and brown boots. An adult perceived to be a responsible and intelligent high-school teacher. I poke my tongue out at the adult in the mirror, and she pokes hers out too. We both smile, a smile rather similar to that of the denim-clad nine-year-old in the picture framed on the staircase.

My toes are being pinched in my boots. Sitting down on the stairs, I yank off one boot, and then the other. My drawer is full of bright knee-high socks, a daring attempt at retaining my individuality whilst hiding it beneath my professional demeanor. Today’s socks are black, with bold polka dots in pink and yellow. In fact, they are rather similar to a pair of rubbers I had once upon a time.

The reflection in the mirror is still wearing an itchy tweed skirt suit, but her polka-dotted socks are no longer hidden. My socked feet pad across the thick carpet and I open the door. The pile is still there, a pile as large as my trampoline. An oasis of color in a sea of dull concrete. An oasis looking more inviting than ever.