Leaves Don’t Disappear, They Just Let Go

After six years teaching in South Texas, I arrived in the Austin area with a master’s degree in Counseling and Guidance and a heart full of hope. Though I’d miss the rhythm of the classroom, I was ready to serve a learning community in a deeper way. My new chapter began at Vatter Elementary in the Round Tree School District.

The first week was a blur—files in disarray, a principal who offered the sage advice to “fake it till you make it,” and a staff whose warmth made me feel instantly at home. I was still finding my footing when a knock on my office door changed everything.

Jerry, a first grader from Mrs. Raber’s class, stepped in with a note. “He’ll explain why,” it read. Jerry didn’t wait for permission—he plopped onto the bean bag chair and said, “Last year I met with Ms. Brooks once a week for thirty minutes. Are you going to do the same?” I asked what they talked about. “Games. Feelings. Did they tell you I’m sick? I have leukemia.” A pause. “No, I didn’t know that. But I’d be honored to meet with you.” He stood. “It’s one time a week for thirty minutes.” And just like that, he left.

So, we started our weekly get togethers. Jerry had a clock inside him. At exactly thirty minutes, he’d rise and return to class, as if he knew others needed space too. Our sessions were a mix of games and quiet truths—his sanctuary, and mine.

One week in November, Jerry asked for an extra visit. He arrived with a sense of urgency and a sing-song voice: “I have something to tell you!” I played along. “What is it?” His tone shifted. “I’m going to die.” Long pause. I cried. He asked why. I said, “Because I was thinking how hard it would be not having you around.” He nodded, gave me a high five, and skipped back to class.

Later, Mrs. Raber and I called Jerry’s mom. She told us Jerry had been drawing rainbows and colorful flowers and taping them to windows in his bedroom and around the house. She and her husband had observed this and said he had done this with great attention and sense of anticipation. They hadn’t pressed.

Then came the Sunday night call the week before winter break. Judy’s voice trembled. Jerry had passed en route to MD Anderson Hospital in Houston. We met early the next morning to prepare for the impossible task: telling his classmates, the school, and parent group. I called our principal and she started the phone tree to alert the staff

When the children arrived, Elaine—Jerry’s friend and our emotional compass—announced, “Did you hear that Jerry died?” Tears, hugs, confusion. Henry worried about his G.I. Joe that he had left at Jerry’s house. We gathered the children in a circle, and Judy wrapped them in love like a quilt stitched from grace. There was time for questions, listening, sharing.

We gave them crayons and paper- providing an opportunity for self-expression regarding their thoughts and feelings about Jerry. Elaine’s drawing showed herself on the playground, unsure whether to sit on a swing or just think about Jerry. “See this little guy on the cloud? That’s Jerry. He’s not far away. He’s watching. He’s okay. And look—the sun is smiling.” A sacred moment.

Then I did something I wasn’t sure was right for six-year-olds. I read to the class Leo Buscaglia’s The Fall of Freddie the Leaf. Freddie is a leaf who learns, through the changing seasons, that life and death are part of a natural cycle. He watches other leaves fall, wonders what it means, and eventually lets go—not with fear, but with understanding. The story doesn’t offer answers, but it offers peace. It tells children that letting go doesn’t mean disappearing. It means becoming part of something greater.

The kids listened, wide-eyed and still. We created a tree on the bulletin board, each child coloring a leaf with their name. Jerry’s leaf, created by the group, was a kaleidoscope of colors. One child said, “I don’t want to put Jerry’s on the ground even though he let go.” I said, “You can place him wherever feels right.” They chose a high branch—still among us.

Before heading to recess, one child whispered, “I thought you had to be 80, 100, or 1000 before you die.” Elaine sighed, “Or a first grader.” And with that, we walked together into the sunlight—Judy and I hand in hand, carrying the weight and the wonder of what had just unfolded.

Judy and I prepared a letter to send home with the children, gently sharing the experience with their families and caregivers, along with thoughtful suggestions for how they might continue the conversation and offer support at home.

Closing Reflection: Grief doesn’t follow a lesson plan. It arrives unannounced, sits beside us on bean bag chairs, and teaches us more than any textbook ever could. That year, Jerry became my teacher. He reminded me that connection is sacred, that even the smallest voices carry profound truths, and that healing often begins with crayons, clouds, and a smiling sun. In the quiet of that classroom, surrounded by first graders and falling leaves, I learned that love doesn’t end—it simply changes form. And sometimes, it climbs to the highest branch and stays there.