The leaf lady.

I've watched her almost every day for 4 years, but I don't know her name. She is dedicated, tireless, and passionate. I admire her, I revere her, and I love her. Even though, I don't even know her name.

Her narrow two story white house sits on the edge of a gravel parking lot. It's old, like all of the houses in this little town, but it doesn't catch your eye like the bubble gum pink Victorian on Alleghany Street or the lovely brick colonial at the end of McCormick or even the amazing 1920's craftsman on Bath Street.

The paint on the narrow white house is pealing and the windows need to be replaced. The leaf lady lives alone.

Her cloud hair is set every day. Covered with a bright scarf when it is cold. Her nose and her chin are close neighbors since her teeth moved away many years ago. Even though her mouth looks like it's always turned down I know she is happy.

She is the queen of her castle.

In the winter she sits behind her door waiting for the snow or the sun to guide her hands. The snow is brushed from the steps before it's even settled. Her well used broom always willing and able.

In the spring she gathers the stray blossoms that blow onto the tiny patch of grass between her house and the street. She puts them into a plastic bag hanging from her arm.

In the summer I see her sweeping the gravel from the parking lot. It tumbles onto the sidewalk and rolls into the gutter in front of her house. She sweeps it away vigorously, dust swirling all around.

Some days I walk by pushing Ivy in the green stroller. I smile and wave. She smiles back. Shy. Ducking her head to avoid conversation.



But in the fall her valiant efforts to keep her property clean become more than heroic. Her spartan yard doesn't contain any deciduous trees. A small gnarled hedge, an old evergreen, these ancient living things are all that adorn her tiny space. So the leaves come from somewhere else.

Across the street is a mighty maple. It's taller than any of the houses. It's leaves dwarf my hands. In the fall they are a million yellow rafts gliding, sailing, swirling down from dizzying heights. Cars drive by and they leap and somersault into the air. Landing on the lawn in front of the narrow white house.



I drive by all times of the day. Early morning to school, to the Y, and to the grocery story. In the afternoon to therapy, to the library, and to soccer or swimming. Every time I pass she is there bent focused gathering the leaves. One by one they are picked up and put into a stack. Her left hand curls waiting for the next leaf.

Not a single acrobatic leaf is left to rest for more than an hour.

Once the leaves are all tidily put away she walks down the street to the store for a bag or two of groceries. I never see her carry more than two. She doesn't own a car.

She owns her house. She keeps it. She loves it. She lives.

Every day she lives and she smiles if you smile at her first.

Every day I learn from the leaf lady. Even though I don't know her name.