For days at a time, Ehme would vanish for hours. 

“I’ll be back momentarily, my sweet Den,” she would say each time.

But where was she going, it would wonder each time she would depart. 

The leaves had their own ideas of her absence. 

The Doubting Leaf would say, “She’s probably going to see her other lover; she cares not for you anymore, Den. Why else would Ehme leave for hours at a time, with little to no explanation regarding her whereabouts?”

Den would ponder the Doubting Leaf’s accusations.

No. There is no way my sweet Ehme would cheat on me. Her heart is always in the right place. Although I am her first resting place, she must be satisfied with my large branches.

She must…

The Selfish Leaf would offer its own theory: 

“I imagine Ehme needs her space. She can only spend so much time sitting and talking to you, Den. We all need our own personal moments, so I wouldn’t stress over the situation too much. Be patient with her disappearances. You two were meant for each other. Like the very Sun and rain that nourished you, she needs you as much as you need her.”

Den would ponder the Selfish Leaf’s recommendation.

I suppose you’re right. Ehme tells me of her love for me, of her devotion - the way her hearts aches. I will always wait for her, no matter where she goes, or what she does with her time. 

—-

And so, after weeks of Ehme disappearing, Den confronted her. 

My gorgeous Ehme, where do you go when you leave my shade? I’m empty when you are gone, and I must know. 

Ehme answered its question willingly:

“Den, you are my foundation, my sturdy home during the most willful of storms, my temple of pleasure, my love. You provide so much for me, so I thought I would make you something.”

“That hill in the distance? Over it, there’s a massive forest. Many of your brothers and sisters stand there. Over the course of my visits, I’ve amassed a collection of berries - each of different shapes, sizes, and flavors.” 

“Your friend, the Sun, allowed me to use its rays to dry these fruits. With my beak, I hollowed out each one, and made this. For you.”

—-

Ehme presented Den with a wind chime of her findings. 

“With this, my lover, my Den, we will be able to be with each other always.”

“When I am absent, let the soft tones of this gift remind you of me. Let it remind you that I am always thinking of you. That I’ll always be here.”

And when I am asleep or otherwise occupied, let the sultry sound of the wind passing through this chime remind you of me. Remind you of my everlasting devotion to us. 

—-

“I’ll always love you, my Den.”

And I’ll always love you too, my blinding light, my Ehme.

Nights with Ehme were filled with somber whimpering and joyful dreams.

Of which…

—-

A fuzzy blur of light started off most of Den’s dreams. 

But this dream was unlike the others before it. For in it, Den was not alone: 

Skipping up to where its roots met soil, a young girl propped her easel and sighed. 

What is your name, and what makes you sigh?

Inquisitively, the young girl looked around the field wondering where/who/what the question came from. 

Seeing only the blades of grass and the tree, she answered, “My name is Diao; I am an artist.”

“Since there’s no one around, I assume the asker of questions is you, tree. So, do you have a name, or shall I consider you hollow?”

Den thought,

I have a name as much as you, my child. I am the Earth as I am the air. The son of the Sun, and the father of leaves.

I have grown from seed to sapling. I am the warmth when you are cold and the shade when you are hot. I have grown from sapling to thick tree, where others have not. I continue to blossom daily, while others rot. 

When the Sun goes down, and the air begins to thin, I’m always thinking.

But you may call me Den. 

—-

The young girl giggled at its silly rhyme, dropped her paints and asked, 

“May I paint you, dearest Den?”

I cannot see why not. May the horizon be your guide. 

—-

Hours passed and the girl became frustrated. No matter how much talent she had, she could not seem to get Den’s lines right. 

Out of anger, Diao threw her brush to the ground, marched up to Den and began to slide her fingers across its branches - within its many cracks, holes, and indentations.

What is the meaning of this molestation?!

“I need to find your flaws, dear tree. I need to know you - everything about you, if I’m ever to paint you. I need to know what makes this branch sway different from that branch. Why your roots hold so firm. I need to know how deep you go. From your interior to your exterior, I must know you.”

And that is what she did.

For days, Diao meticulously navigated Den. Finding his flaws, and loving every last discrepancy between her and it.

But like everything before and everything to come after, Diao finished her painting. 

“I think I need to add more trees to this painting if it’s going to be complete,” said Diao in a faint voice. 

I did not hear you, child. What did you say?

“I have to go now, Den. I’ve done all I can here. It’s time for you to wake up.” 

—-

With a shudder of its leaves, Den awoke from its dream. 

“Are you ok, my love, my Den?” asked Ehme in a concerned tone. 

No. No, it’s nothing. I am fine. Go back to sleep, my sweet, sweet Ehme.

—-

As its bird - the love of its life - fell back asleep, Den could not help but think of its dream. 

Could its dream, its Diao, be a foreshadow of things to come. Den hoped not.

And as Den slipped back into glorious slumber, a single leaf detached from its branch, and fell to the ground.

To dry up and dissolve away.  

A month now passed, Den had grown. Sadly, leaves had yet to sprout from its gallant branches.

Spending time alone, Den often thought its bare display was a fault of its own. 

Is there something wrong with me, thought Den on more than one occasion. 

Den had gone an entire Spring and Summer without so much as a single leaf grown. If the Sun had such magnificent plans for Den, then why was it still naked? 

Is there something wrong with me? 

Then, on a lonely December night - or was it November? Who’s to say - Den heard the flutter of the softest wings, a noise most breathtaking, without even being seen. 

“Hello? I’ve been flying all my life, and I’d like a place to rest my weary wings. Is that alright?”

A voice sweet like honey, with a body so small and eloquent. Beautiful feathers the shade of orange kissed by curves so delicate. 

Sweet bird, my branches are yours to make home in, thought Den. What is your name?

“My friends named me ______, but you may call me Ehme.”

—-

And so was the meeting of Den and Ehme, of it and she. 

With each passing day, leaves began to take form, making Den’s existence feel all the more warm. 

Den suspected Ehme’s presence to be the catalyst for its change - the bringer of life into an otherwise barren tree.

Days turned to nights, nights led to weeks, months, years. Ehme had made a home in Den, among its colorful leaves, now healthy. 

Each night, before falling asleep, Ehme would snuggle into one of Den’s many nooks, and proclaim, “I’m happy.”

Den would wrap its branches around Ehme, and gently whisper, I’m glad.  

—-

And so it was, a match made in Fall(ing) asleep with Ehme made Den the happiest of all.

In an unassuming field, under an unassuming but all knowing Sun, a seed transported by the backs of bees lands in a sea of treeless greenery, unassumingly. 

Looking around, the field holds nothing, save the memories of past saplings - the ones too weak to hold firm in the unkempt dirt.

But this is where it makes its home. Its home, being here, now, by the grass that surrounds. It being Den, until now not noticed.

Den’s birth is not much different from the other trees before it. This field, though. This field holds a reputation to strangle. However, unlike the others, Den’s life has a future. 

The Sun has plans for Den; plans that will baptize Den and create, in it, something the world has never seen. 

For the Sun knows there’s potential in this one, in this seed - to make it into the best den for all leaves. They’ll speak and share their stories; the rooting of life’s murmuring.

And Den will listen, as its branches creak and sway with the breeze, the stories here told, by the language of leaves.