Desiree, my six-year-old daughter, kicked the autumn leaves along the sidewalk into a neat pile as we walked to the school bus that morning. I should have accompanied her in my wheelchair, but opted for my crutches instead. I have multiple sclerosis, and my neuropathy was acting up.<\/p>\n
Still, like Desiree, I loved the satisfying crunch of leaves underfoot. Autumn is magical here in New Hampshire. I can’t think of any sight more breathtaking than the mountains cloaked in the blazing yellows, fiery reds and burnished golds of the birch, oak and maple leaves.<\/p>\n
My daughter skipped along in the crisp air. I tried to keep pace, but couldn’t. I didn’t want her to see how much pain I was in. She bent down, scooped up an armful of leaves and sent them flying into the air. They cascaded down around us, and Desiree giggled.<\/p>\n
“Brown, yellow, orange, green! Red is my favorite. Is it yours too, Mommy?” Her smile faded as she looked into my eyes. “Mommy, are you okay?” She reached out to hug me.<\/p>\n
I embraced my baby as best I could. “Your hugs always make me feel better,” I said. It was true: For the first time that morning, I had a brief respite from the pain.<\/p>\n