It’s her first autumn.
We walk. She turns her head back and forth, watching the wind blow through the trees. I show her how to crunch leaves. She shows me how to eat them.
I see now that it’s my first autumn as well.
We bring the blanket outside. She points to the house. She points to the bushes. She points to her swing.
We bake pumpkin rolls. We listen to fall songs. We read fall books. She turns the pages.
These moments are borrowed.
Sometimes I feel as if she’s on loan to me.
The rational science part of me leaves and I really feel like we were placed with each other, rather than her being the result of conception.
She is the constant reminder to be here now.