I’ve got my little boy to thank for it; this paper rain that taps on the roof, every time the wind blows.
To the adult eye—the eye that’s been battered and bruised by the duller shades of life—this paper rain…it’s just a bunch of leaves.
Leaves that leap and tumble and spin from the tallest trees.
Leaves that really are beautiful, dressed in their autumn best.
Still. They’re just leaves.
But my little boy, oh.
His eyes know what they see. And they do not see leaves.
They see paper rain.
To him, and all the other tiny humans that walk this rounded earth of ours, ordinary is…
Ordinary is full of sparkle and shine.
Ordinary does not exist to them.
To the tiny folk of the world, autumn is full of trees that sprinkle copper flakes of paper all about the lawn.
Darling, isn’t it?
I thought you’d think so.