In the afternoon, when the sunlight is soft,
I take the hand of my daughter, who is turning five,
And head to the neighbourhood park.

There’s a large forest in this park,
Where everyone enjoys their own kind of afternoon —
Couples having picnics, joggers,
And people out walking their dogs.

Children around my daughter's age
Run around the open space and play on the equipment,
But my daughter and I only have eyes for the ground.

We look around curiously and wander a little further.
Every now and then we crouch down, pick something up,
And exchange a glance.

What we're looking at are the leaves
That have fallen from the trees.

They vary in colour and shape —
Some smooth and shiny,
Some with tips as jagged as a saw's teeth,
And some chewed by insects, leaving a neat round hole right in the middle.

Even leaves from the same tree each have their own character.
No two are ever exactly alike.

We tuck our favourite leaf of the day
Into the notebook pocket and take it home.

My daughter imagines all kinds of animals in the leaves.
A soft, rounded one is a “sleeping cat.”
A yellow, pointy one is the “beak of a birdie from a tropical island.”

I draw those imaginary animals on a blank page,
And keep them alongside the leaves
As little memories of our time together.