I remember the first autumns in the city and my childlike delight at the leaves. So many of them, in rich colors, blanketing lawns and roads and sidewalks in brilliant heaps. I have fuzzy memories of raking them into piles to jump in, later the fathers gathering around them, leaning on their rakes and holding beers as they watched them burn. Nobody burns leaves here, and they’re usually too wet to jump in, but I am always happy for them.
Last night was late for me. I shoulda gone to bed, an old voice said, but I went to see the show and had a good time. Had I not gone, I wouldn’t have seen this display, spread out as if for me alone.