The Aspen Grove

Once she was a grove of Aspen trees. She sat nestled at the base of a mountain, just across the valley from a little boy who lived with his mom and dad and younger sister in a small cabin. His name then was Charles, which she thought was quite a funny name for such a little boy, and he played among her branches his whole childhood.

Charles rested at the base of her trunks, played pirate with her fallen limbs as swords, and chased butterflies and bees along the perimeter of her body. She shook with delight, her leaves dancing in a soft symphony of gratitude as his fingers traced the dark scars that emerged on her pale skin each time a branch fell or an arrow missed its target. When the boy walked from his home to the grove, his feet wet from splashing in the stream that ran just beside her, she summoned a bit of wind to rush through her quaking leaves, whispering,

hello, boy.

Charles grew into a young man, his stout form becoming more in tune with his name. She grew with him, but did not age as quickly. The village near Charles’ cabin grew as well, encroaching on the valley a bit more each year.

Now he brought his lovers to the grove. In the day, a young woman with whom he shared poems and dreams and whose hand he tenderly held as he guided her across fallen logs. And in the night, a young man with whom he passionately, desperately, achingly made love—his heart filled with an equal mix of shame and desire. Above them her leaves quaked in celebration and anticipation of their love. Beneath them her roots stretched out like a lattice, cradling the boy as he wept in grief that his love could not exist beneath the sun.

Eventually, the boy became a man grown. That man knew he couldn’t live forever in his parents’ cabin, so he left. Before he left, he said goodbye to the grove of Aspen trees across the valley, with whom he had spent his life. He whispered that he would visit her if he ever came back.

But he did not.

She could hear his voice occasionally carrying across the valley, mingled with the voices of his wife and their young children. He came to visit occasionally, each year more weighed down with the preoccupations of his life than the last. The visits grew fewer and farther between as time went on.

Each year the village grew, and new souls came to visit her. Lovers, mothers, friends, and eventually, men with axes. They cut her faster than she could send up new shoots, and her energy slowly waned. She contracted, each year getting smaller until only a few trees remained.

It was then that he came, walking slowly and deliberately through the dark. His children, now young men and women themselves, were asleep. But he remained restless. He hadn’t been home in many years, and was saddened that his friend was barely visible across the cavernous mouth of the valley.

When he approached her, she was barely able to muster a hello. It was a still night, and her leaves few. He placed his hand on her bark. He could feel everything from that touch, just as he could when he was a boy. The density of the wood, the moisture running beneath her skin, the smell of her leaves when they were crushed underfoot. The soft quaking of the leaves above him brought a rush of memories with it. They mingled with new ones as he mentally shared his life with his friend—the laughs of his children, the comfort of his home, the sound of wind running through stalks of wheat. And together they stood, a small boy named Charles and the silent guardian of his childhood’s magic, sharing their life together once more.

After a while, Charles bent down to her labyrinth of exposed roots. He pulled a knife from his pocket and took a cutting to bring back home.

And they lived happily ever after until (and after) their deaths.