Nothing in this world is really precious until we know that it will soon be gone. 只有当失去时才知道珍惜。

Pa pa, my grandfather, loved the fall. Every year, at the end of October, he would gather all the yard’s leaves in neat piles along the curb and begin burning them.

All along the avenue, as far as one could see, leaves would be burning. I used to wonder if it were prearranged, this ritual of disposal. Yet I never heard Papa phone anyone and say, “Well, today is the day. I’ll see you at the curb.” No, it just sort of happened. The fires would start in the late afternoon, when the winds were low, and continue into the early hours of dusk, the dying embers barely discernible by the time we children had to go in.

Leaf-burning was a family affair, a part of autumn I looked forward to every year. Adults raked all day, trying to keep the laughing children from running and jumping into the leaves before they got to the curb. At an early age, I delighted in the crackling sounds the flames made, and learned respect for fire, as well.

Neighbors talked and caught up with the latest goings-on. The men said things like, “Seems like there are twice as many as last year.” Nana baked pies and invited folks in for food and company. The visitors lingered long after the embers were cold, and spoke of the coming winter. Papa, though, stayed outside, standing guard lest some stubborn leaf try to reignite and escape.

As a child, I never asked Papa why he seemed to love the burning of the leaves. I just assumed that everyone burned leaves in October and he was just doing what was expected of him. As I grew into adolescence, I found myself sitting at the curb, talking into the evening with him. And I became aware that it was more than a yearly chore for him. He once shared with me the times his dad had burned leaves on their small plot in the Pennsylvania hills. My great-grandfather was a coal miner and had little time to relax with his family. Papa and his ten brothers and sisters all looked forward to spending precious time with their dad during the burning of the leaves.

Papa was a quiet man, not given to a lot of talk. After years of working in open steel pits, he was still in great shape, but he moved slowly and always with a purpose. He and Nana were the anchors in my formative years, always there: same house, same comfortable routines. My parents and I lived a migratory army life. My grandparents rarely traveled. They were a constant I held even more dear as I grew into adulthood.