You have a lovely home.

Those words, however unimaginative, cross my mind whenever I’m lucky enough to be a guest on your breathtaking property. The impeccably designed interiors are so spacious that even I never feel at all claustrophobic, and at night, the faraway stars on your impossibly high ceilings glow vivid in the dark. Everyone who visits can only look on at the display in wonder and in awe. I am no exception.

Ever the gracious host, you’re quick to offer me a glass of water as soon as I arrive. But I can tell, by the harmful effect this refreshment has on my amorphous body, that you’re secretly hoping I won’t stay long. I can tell, by the cracks that have formed across your barren face, that any surplus water is currently in short supply.

Perhaps you’d rather save a sip for yourself?

No need to worry about little old me. I promise I’ll be fine.

#

Of all the organisms who live off your frame, trees exhibit the most curious behavior, don’t you think? They tend to enjoy the company of their own kind, often gathering in large crowds, so tightly packed together that other wandering souls can scarcely see past them.

Trees can grow to be very old, although they’ll never be quite as old as you. (I’ve been taught it’s rude to ask a woman her age, so I will say no more.) Trees come in all shapes and sizes. They can be tall and slender. Short and squat. Each individual silhouette unique and distinctive. And when their leafy limbs reach for the light of your home’s brightest bulb, I hope you are at least able to enjoy the cool shade they offer.

Trees love stories. They will drink words for breakfast, inhale full sentences for lunch, and consume paragraphs upon paragraphs for dinner and dessert. Scattered punctuation makes for a delicious light snack between meals. Unfortunately, by the time such a feast is set before it, a tree has already been decapitated—chopped off at the neck—leaving only roots and rings behind. By the time it can indulge in this sumptuous buffet, a tree has already been stripped of life. It has traded its original form for another. The worst part is the tree was never given a choice.

#

And yet, trees really do exhibit the most curious behavior, as I’m sure you’ll agree. They plant themselves deep from the start and don’t often stray from their personal space. I think I’d be frightened if they made a habit of moving around, wouldn’t you? The truth is, I have often felt you tremble and quake. Sometimes your innocent fear can even create a ripple effect, with death and destruction sweeping all across the mass of you.

Tell me, do those lost lives ever make you feel like a monster? Because I’ll confess: I feel that way all the time. You and I, we have more in common than you think.

I believe in accountability, of course. I believe in taking responsibility for my actions. So yes, I’ll admit that I’m hot-tempered, that I often let my irritability get the best of me. It’s just that when I witness other guests treating you and your beautiful home in a disrespectful and careless manner, I can hardly contain my rage.

But I do not possess the same rock-solid body that has served you for billions of years. My physical form changes with the wind. Sometimes I am small, nothing but a few dying embers in the grass. Other times, I can grow quite large. I can lose control. There are of course times when I am not here at all, but believe me, I always return.

Trees get thirsty, much like you do. In a way, they are an extension of you, which is why this next part may be difficult for you to hear. When they are parched and a strong breeze blows through, when they are standing there and minding their own business, trees behave even more curiously than usual. (It’s almost like they have a death wish.)

Please know that I couldn’t help myself. Please know that I am quite sorry for the smoke circulating inside your lovely home, and the fallen ash that now dirties your beautiful face. Please know that neither you nor your trees deserve any of the blame.

We are not the monsters.

About the Author:

Susan L. Lin is a Taiwanese American storyteller who hails from southeast Texas and holds an MFA in Writing from California College of the Arts. Her novella GOODBYE TO THE OCEAN won the 2022 Etchings Press novella prize, and her short prose and poetry have appeared in over fifty different publications. She loves to dance. Find more at https://susanllin.com.

*Featured image by Mohamed Nohassi at Unsplash