These crisp fall mornings bring a sharp clarity to memory.

My daughter is about 4, and she is playing in the backyard of our old house. The trees are mostly bare, the leaves gone brown. They lie in damp mounds around the yard and we scuff our feet through them.

She is in love with the pecan tree, or rather, the fruit that falls from it. The nuts lie huddled in nests in the grass, partially hidden around the fence line. They have striped shells, like tiny rodents, oval and hard.

Her little baby teeth can crack the shells, and so she does. Bits of pecan splinter away from the innards. She can never wait for me to crack a nut properly, her small pink tongue probes the meat before I can grab it away.

Her cheeks are pink, her skin a perfect cream, they are a palette they will never be again.

Her cheeks are pink, her skin a perfect cream, they are a palette they will never be again.

Her eyes so bright, her face clear of any emotion, except maybe a simple, lazy contentment.

I imagine that my child is a bit like the pecan itself, a soft, symmetrical outer shell with dark, yet tender insides. Curious, complex, at times tricky to access, but oh, so worth the effort.

But my daughter’s carapace was not fully hardened and tough back then, time alone would take care of that.

Anyway, I now see that we took those trees for granted. We thought just about every family had pecans like ours. That every yard was home to them.

In our new yard there are lovely trees, a poplar, several pin oaks and even an ancient mulberry that might offer up fruit for jam, if I weren’t so lazy.

But no pecan tree.

And this time of year, I think of my daughter and remember her love of nature – bugs, kittens, butterflies. And her relationship with the special tree that surrendered its seasonal gifts to her.

And, as I am thankful for the memory of that old nut tree, I am filled with gratitude for that long ago child.