There it is, on crumpled paper, in a child’s hand, the sentence written 100 times over, just as she remembered it, at the bottom of a dusty box of old memories from a past life.

“I will not be so stupid as to play in the leaves in the street.”
“I will not be so stupid as to play in the leaves in the street.”
“I will not be so stupid as to play in the leaves in the street.”

This is a season of research.

How many times can a child call themselves stupid without it sticking like a wet leaf to pavement? 

25? 50? 100 times? 

How many times can an adoptive parent call a child stupid before it takes hold like the deep taproot of an ancient oak tree?

25? 50? 100?

Glasses fogged over, she ran her hand along the chain-link fences that kept her to the sidewalk. The walk home from school was nearly a mile, though she didn’t mind it, not even as the weather turned and the dampness coated the slate sidewalks, making them slick and suspect. She was a fourth grader, feeling her independence as she walked alone. She was old enough to know her chaotic home life was nothing to rush toward, so she took her time. She always did. The sun was already low in the sky, casting shadows that looked like a spider’s web. Despite her thick glasses. she was a noticer of things, even if others didn’t think so. They called her a daydreamer … or worse. 

“I will not be so stupid as to play in the leaves in the street.”
“I will not be so stupid as to play in the leaves in the street.”
“I will not be so stupid as to play in the leaves in the street.”

Kids, with lunch boxes and hair matted from the cold, humid air, passed her by, calling her the same tired names of the era—spaz, dork, retard—though she pretended not to hear. It wasn’t hard. She spent most of her time in her own world, anyway. It was just easier that way. As she got closer to home the names mostly subsided, except for those hurled at her by her brother. 

She was almost to the park, almost home. This could even mean seeing a friendly face or two as she was now in her own neighborhood. She noticed several large piles of leaves against the curb. Each autumn, the town’s public works truck, with its elephant-like trunk, lumbered through town, making quick work of removing the evidence that winter was fast approaching. But the DPW truck had not yet arrived on this side of town so the leafy mountains still stood, ready for any kid to stake their claim.

She set her bookbag down, her apprehension aside, and jumped into the pile. She threw the leaves in the air and let them float down on top of her. Their surfaces were pocked and mottled in muted and varying shades of brown, maroon, and yellow. They were soggy and stuck to her glasses, her cheeks, her red polyester coat. She sank down into the pile and sat for a minute, breathing in the loamy smell of nature preparing to hibernate. She imagined she was doing the same, molding a cave from the leaves so she was nearly invisible, or so she thought. She was completely lost in the moment … one with the mountain. 

Her bright red coat gave her away as her adoptive mother drove by, on the way home from some unknown destination. The station wagon came to a halt and her adoptive mother rolled down the window, already angrily yelling for her to get up and get out of the street. She was slow to react, as always, with the words floating down to her much like the leaves had, landing individually on the street for her to pile up and string together as best she could. She was suddenly disoriented, her glasses crooked and hat disheveled. Didn’t she realize how stupid she was to play in the leaves in the street? her mother was shouting down at her angrily. 

Now she does. 

“I will not be so stupid as to play in the leaves in the street.”
“I will not be so stupid as to play in the leaves in the street.”
“I will not be so stupid as to play in the leaves in the street.