Leaf, Red

Yesterday, I gave you your first red leaf. I placed its stem into your tiny hands and you clenched it, waving it above your head, placing it on your chest.

Last November, when I found out I was pregnant, I sat on the living-room couch and stared out through the stained glass windows at the tree in our front yard. The leaves were all red then, most of them cluttered on the sidewalk. Fall was almost over; winter just ahead. I dreamed of holding you--although I did not know you were Noah yet--under the umbrella of red leaves.

September thus far has been summer-like, but our tree is turning red. Yesterday, I picked up one of its bright red leaves and placed it in your tiny hand.

You are Noah Michael. And I love you like I love red leaves.