The girl

The Tree stands, tall and majestic, and she puts a hand on it, feeling the heartbeat of the Earth.

Modern, electric lights flare up its trunk and light it different colors, shimmering between verdants and greys, pinks and ceruleans, the fresh yellow of a balloon bobbing in and out of the sky. A small sanctuary neighbors it, and many years ago, maybe it used to be lush and green with the undertone of butterflies whispering between leaves. But now, surrounded by concrete, the only ones that she can hear are the old laments of the sighing tree that calls for something, something no one understands. Something like regret, older than the City itself.

Sometimes, when the wind is still and the perpetual hum of technology buzzes to a stop, in the standstill of imagination, she can almost, almost hear it tell the stories of Before, but soon the words are gone, swallowed up by the spell of time.

“Tree,” she asks one day, “why does no one else come here?”

The Tree sways in the wind, a whisper saying, Because they do not care.

The girl tilts her head. “Why?”

If only they looked, the Tree sighs, just notice me for a moment.

They sit in thoughtful silence, and the day goes on.

To the girl, as time passes, the world feels vacant. The walkways of entire cities are paved with immaculate white bricks, a glow of flame licking fingers, a contour of snowy white against blood, of chalky streets against smog-filled sky.

“Tree,” she says, “Why do they cut your branches?”

The Tree’s leaves rustle softly, whispering, Because they do not see.

The girl asks, “But are you not in the middle of the city?”

The Tree laughs.

The girl waits.

There is no reply.

Once or twice the haze gets bad, but most of the time they never notice, for smog masks are obligatory and a conventional part of life now. There are skin products and hair products and nail products that counteract the effects, but no one once thinks of how to counteract the smog itself. While the others rush into air-filtered buildings and cars, the girl sits in the smoke and vapor until the coughs rack her lungs and she cries to the Tree. 

“The mask reminds me of the ones they wore during plagues,” she says. “I would not want to forget what it is like to feel pain.”

The Tree sways silently in the wind, nodding in approval.

The boy

He steps into the sand, the only area in the entire state of Florida that has not been excavated, evacuated, or drowned beneath still blue waters. Like a graveyard.

He stares at the sea. The waves lap over one another, fighting to be on top, just like the seafoam green battles the scarlet tentacles of a deadly creature, algae, the scientists say, blooming like a deadly flower. They form a swirl of conflicting colors, a palette like none ever made. Once when he was little, he remembers almost touching the palette, pulled back only by his grandfather, breathing hard with rasping sighs.

Don’t touch that, he said. You’ll die.

How funny was it, that this they still worried about, the boy thought. Dead or alive, is not the world more dead than it has ever been? He thinks of the huts, specially designed to keep out heat, but not me, he thinks, pressing his toe firmly into the hot, burning sand.

The ocean roars, red-hot, and splatters water, smoldering, upon his leg. Small, crimson dots appear, but he does not notice. All he can think of is the world, and what it has now become. The ocean breeze should be cool, but a hot, aching wind gnaws down his shoulders and down his back. Eyes closed, it feels like a desert, airy and dry, only the fragments of sun are pricking his eyes, falling to the Earth like small, pocket-sized comets that bring memories of summery days.

Where did the sun go? He wonders while the sun is throbbing, beating down. My world is dark. He ponders while the bright light reflects more violently, scintillating off the white rooftops of villas that no one will visit anymore. They say that in less than five years, they will be evacuating to Mars. To ruin yet another place in this universe? The boy thinks. We have forgotten who we are.

And no, it is not about the jellyfish swarming the oceans like clouds billowing over dust storms, no, it is not about the hungry waters seething with creatures, the roar of wrathful blue ice plunging into sea, the few specimens that remain, examined under microscopes and pierced for display. It is not even about the world, at least, not any longer. 

Who is it about, but the ones whose minds have been cleaned to slates telling guidance and for only our generation, and none after? Why is the sky gray-green? Why do places we spend our entire childhoods disappear into the blue? Why do the rich move to Antarctica and Greenland and Russia, the only places where the temperature is below 70 degrees?

We have been erased, erased of the rainbow of all living things, of the very thing we were made to delight in.

It used to be to preserve other species, but now,

We must preserve our own.

The tree

Ah, humans. 

Somewhere, my great great great grandmother told me that they started out all squeaky and few, and gathered in small groups, occasionally pulling off a few or branches to set on fire so their poor little bodies wouldn’t freeze. They sat under me in the hot sun while it beat down on me, and I was happy to provide them with shade.

Then they got bigger. Well, not physically, but there were more. They moved out of small animal-skin huts and onto mud, stone, then wooden homes. And eventually they evolved into impatient little creatures whose heads were too big for them to realize that they needed me, and that I did not need them.

Once upon a time, my branches were long and strong and brunette and mahogany and beautiful. They were slender, they danced in the sun like shimmers of light itself; occasionally bits of sky would become trapped in their intricate design, fractals among fractals, only to be carried away on the next breeze. My leaves - they were sage and pea-green, aquamarine, and they rustled in their own language. Only sometimes could I decipher what they were chattering about, and mostly it was about life and light and bursting into song.

But then, I watched as the humans dug up my friends and family from around me, and eventually within me something too was uprooted and I wished to die with them.

But they kept me.

I was put on display, Oldest Tree on Earth, they said, strapping me of poor imitations of sunlight - these thin, spurious dots of light that brought down my magnificence. Amazing, they said. Then they cut down the branches that were too unruly, pulled off the ugly leaves, and left me to stand there, not enough sunlight, with hairy little creatures called nothing but humans to gawk at me all day.

The only comfort that someone acknowledges that humans need nature, and not the other way around, is a small girl who sits by me each day and listens to my voice.

If I have one, that is.

The rest of the world doesn’t care.

Of course, I’m still open to suggestions. Maybe even forgiveness, if I’m feeling generous.

But mostly, I wish I could tell this to the girl who sits down by me and cries:

I know, I know. When will they ever learn?