Stripped of my sophisticated boots, my secret is exposed. I can hear the rumors, spreading among the shadchanim with the rustling leaves

There’s something magical about autumn. The walk home as the sun casts a delicate glow on the red-tinged leaves. The crunch as my new boots make contact with the pile of dulled, paper-brown acorn leaves. The leaves swaying gently in the breeze, waving to the beat of a slow ballad at their closing concert for the year.

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.

I am standing inches away from the pile. I step forward, prodding the pile gingerly with my polka-dotted toe, testing the waters. The leaves rustle quietly in response. I breathe deeply and the crisp autumn air fills my lungs, expelling the oppressive office air. I step into the middle of the pile, bend my knees, and jump! A fresh breeze caresses my face gently and I feel my hair flying behind me, spreading like a pair of wings. I am free.

My feet sink into the pile. The leaves are there, just as I remembered. They are tickling me around my ankles, hugging me, welcoming me. The leaves are damp and mushy, and make a beautiful squelching sound as I prod them with my socks. My liberated toes are getting damp, but I don’t care. I stand in the middle of the pile on our front lawn, wearing my suit and socks. I dig my toes and kick, watching the leaves flutter, decorating our driveway.

A door slams and my neighbor steps out of her Saab. My hear sinks into my polka-dotted socks as the figure makes her way toward me. Mrs. Engel. My employer. Her feet are sensibly decked in stockings and dark court shoes, and she looks very much the part of the high school principal that she is. I brace myself for a life of unemployment and spinsterhood. Stripped of my sophisticated boots, my secret is exposed. I can hear the rumors, spreading among the shadchanim with the rustling leaves.

Mrs. Engel walks over to me, and my perfectly made-up adult face is now perfectly coordinated with my hot-pink polka dots. She stands next to me, quietly, looking at the pile of leaves. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” she murmurs. A navy court shoe tentatively pokes the remaining maple leaves. They leap in the air and spin softly, then drop back into the sea of orange. Stepping closer, she bends her knees and gives a jump. The leaves crackle in applause. With a barely perceptible wink, she picks up her briefcase and heads to her front door, heels clicking on the sidewalk.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 264)