I squeeze Mom’s hand and step outside, my light-up sneakers flashing bright through the early morning fog. A shower of red falls on our heads, and I look up at my favorite tree, shedding its last leaves. The air feels crisp in the mountains where my family and I spend Thanksgiving. The chill is a familiar reminder of the joy that comes with the changing of the seasons.

Mom and I make our way toward the lake, stepping only on the new fallen leaves, which we pretend are stepping stones. It is here we spend our Thanksgiving morning, sitting on the dock, feet swinging low over the freezing water. Usually we buy seeds to throw to the flocks of birds preparing for their migration south. Today we indulge them with leftover bread. Mom has me rip the pieces small enough so the birds can eat them whole. Sometimes I throw the bread as far as I can to see how fast the birds fly, but my favorite is watching them peck out of my hand. Mostly the birds flock to my mom. She seems to have a way with them.

Our morning passes like a blur of happiness: feathers, wood fire, pine, our laughter playing like a film score in the background. We bask in the peaceful pre-dawn until the sun peeks over the hills. Soon, my brother will call us in for breakfast. Our ritual is put on hold until next year, when, once again, we will say good-bye to the leaves and the wildlife on their journey to a new home.