Winter Leaves
--Clarke Rubel, 2005
This is a story about winter leaves of sorts, significant only because they seem to die. Dormancy is not their end though. They fall, but through the miracle of natural selection, are reissued, reanimated and revitalized into tangible, delicate extensions of the tree. Their death, therefore, is sad only if the sleeping tree is destroyed during their absence.
The leaf lay dust-swollen under the double bed in the guest bedroom where sheets are changed only as an act of routine maintenance. It was not always so. These times of year the bedroom once bristled with suitcases and traveler’s slippers and the leaf was removed to make room for gifts hidden in futility from prying young eager eyes.
The leaf was a work of art as delicately beautiful and meticulously crafted as if Nature herself had forged it and the large family that gathered around the table these times of year made it a utile piece of art. Expertly hand-fitted, set into its edges were dowels so precise that, when pressed into the table’s center, only a discreet line appeared between the leaf’s edges and the table’s. On its sides was a masterfully carved pattern that reminded the children nearly eye-level with it of waves on the sea – not storm waves, but rhythmic swells to invite fantasies of sailing. Adults rarely saw the sea. Their perspective had changed with growing up; but on occasion when a child commented, Mommy! Daddy! It looks like the ocean, she would bend, Pan-like, to recall once thinking the same thing and he would comment after a moment of reverie, Yes it does.
Perhaps the most notable plane of the leaf was its top. Under the time-polished luster of its finish was a most remarkable grain. This had been once a single tree, had grown to be the width and breadth of this family. The grain was proof. Its continuity from one end of the table to the other was interrupted only if the leaf was removed. With the puzzle reassembled a pattern of successive arcs appeared to spread from the center of one end broadening in radius and distance toward the other end and outward to the sides – as if a branch had fallen into dark water and disturbed its surface. When the leaf was inserted these times of year, it was as if the table was alive, growing again and rooted.
The finished product of the holiday table did not actually reveal this beauty though. By suppertime, a white pressed linen tablecloth, fine dishes and real silver cloaked the leafed table. The music of laughter, solemnity of prayer, chime of silver on dishes, and community of feasting blanketed the room as well, warming all comers. Before long, those who had seen the sea in the edges of the table grew impatient and turned their heads toward the tree that was illuminated by the promising glow of gift wrap. Parents sang their Yule songs: Get back here… Sit still… Wait until we’re all finished… Finish your peas… Empathetic Grandparents smiled, recalling singing the same songs to their children – some things do not change.
As years rolled on, the table and leaf were passed down, spanning generations, supporting family traditions until through attrition, distance, and the hubbub of busy lives the leaf was no longer needed. For several years the table itself, minus the leaf, could support the few who still gathered, fewer in numbers and poignantly thankful for all that the leaf represented.
The story would end here, except that leaves, like joy, do not disappear forever. They reemerge, stronger than before because of their pasts. This year the phone rang and the e-mails came and with them news of vacation time and airline tickets and road trips with the kids. All this to gather again as one family. So much to do. Great-Grandmother’s china to wash. Grandmother’s linen to press… Mom’s silver to polish… Presents to wrap… Peas to buy… laughter… prayer… feasting… the double bed in the guest bedroom needs changing, another pillow and a quilt added.
The dust-swollen leaf with its rhythmic sea-graced sides sheds its coat in the magical warmth of winter and slips into the open mouth of the awaiting table. Like old friends they fit, secure and precise, as if they had never been apart. She bends – Honey, I always thought this looked like the ocean. He crouches, holding their infant son who reaches with the tactile inquisitiveness of a child to touch the leaf’s relief. Too young yet to bring his thoughts to life with words, he coos through a toothless smile. Yes it does.
Warmest Holiday Wishes from the Rubels (Clarke, Laurie, Julie, Andy)
