Daily writing prompt: Do you have any collections?

If the ounces of water in a glacier could be measured, then I could know the breadth of love my wife has for me. Our love is a dazzling duet. This duet has produced many collections. Of memories, laughs, stories, feelings I cannot put words to, and tree leaves.

She started her leaf collection before we had our own place together. During leisurely strolls through the neighborhood she draws me from my quiet introspection by asking, “What kind of a tree is this?” Following an imaginary line the distance of one Expecto Patronum spell out from her index finger, I find the subject in question. Even though she’s not warding off dementors, she finds the knowledge I can put at the tip of her finger, useful and powerful.

What is so mesmeric about this collection, aside from the trees, is the selfless adoration she wraps my monologues in. She absorbs everything I say about trees. Every word is coddled with affection, while she waits for an opportune time to ask an astute question. Nobody (on this plane) has ever taken an interest in me like she does. To call this degree of attention crazy, is too harsh for what she deserves. The love she summons for me is numinous.

While living with her parents, the leaf collection served as a tangible connection to me. After twirling the brown petioles betwixt her gentle fingers, the dead, abscised leaves were assigned their respective memorial chords that our duet had produced that night. Then they were placed in a large Ziploc bag to reside in her nightstand. There they waited until an inner longing called them forth to perform their service of comfort. It is the most sacred assemblage of dead leaves I know.