Her Forest Room

They run without coats today, so warm for the middle of November. I cannot fathom that I will have the windows open much longer. But today it is warm air that flutters in with the last of the autumn leaves. She lures her little brother to the forest room, a tiny space in the back corner of our yard, surrounded by good neighbors and their fences. This is her place, my girl. A sanctuary from her days of school and chores and brothers, she has named this corner of the world and takes her dolls there to play pretend. She has asked me to rake the leaves away. Bare dirt massages her bare feet and this is how she likes to play. She is so willing to lose her shoes and her inner critic as she dances and climbs the tree that makes a Y up to the heavens. Her brother spares his shoes, but dances and twirls like the somersaulting leaves. They are Indians, raccoons, Boy Scouts today. Each game of pretend melds into the next until neither one is quite sure where they are. They drum loudly on the overturned garbage can with bats and sticks. Good ear-plugs also make good neighbors. I marvel at these children and their personalities. So free in this back yard to dance and dream and be. Not constrained by shoes or peers or weather. May they always be as free as the leaves that tumble from my half-constructed pile.