One of my earliest memories has me staring up from the bottom of a pile of crisp leaves beneath an evening sky and the palm tree in the front yard of my parent’s house in Corpus.
I’d been raking leaves with my dad. I don’t remember why I was in the pile of leaves, other than I was three, or very nearly, and kids just jump in leaves sometimes.
I haven’t jumped in any leaves in a long time. At some point, approaching adolescence, rolling around in dry, scratchy leaves and getting poked by twigs lost its glamour for me; a lot of childlike things lost their glamour with me.
That’s too bad. I imagine a maniacal kid grin slapped across the face peering out from that pile of leaves. It must be insane kinds of fun, or so many kids wouldn’t do it.
I was almost a maniacal kid a few nights ago. On the brink, I tell you! Going for an illicit swim in the middle of the night when an early morning and a long week were just peeking above the horizon. It was fun. I smiled. I laughed.
Nothing is more fun than thrashing around on the floor wrestling like idiots. Or rolling down a hill. Or bouncing around the house singing your heart out to the imaginary, sold-out, cheering crowd. Or throwing food at someone.
I eat sweets. Sleep in. Relish clean sheets on the bed. And breathe a little deeper when I smell a pretty perfume. These things are important. You have to enjoy the world you live in.
But you have to act like a kid sometimes, too.
I’ve forgotten how much fun it can be to be covered in mud.