Warmer Climes: Part One
This photo was generated using OpenAi’s DALL·E 2 engine.
There was a woman who grew a small tree on the side of her head. It was a wonderfully healthy one, with perfectly formed leaves that would sprout in spring, glow in the summer sun, turn a crisp golden brown in the fall, and lay germinating within during winter. Her hair, which grew around it so closely she could not tell if it was growing underneath as well, had a certain glow that matched it in its auburn hue.
She wasn’t the first person in her city to be so afflicted with unusual appendages. There was a man with enormous wings whose life, it was said, had been livestreamed by an alien on another planet who was said to be a “writer,” whatever that was. For Petroska, she knew the stories as well as anyone — the man had grown the wings and taken off, probably in the direction of warmer climes. It’s all anyone ever talked about in her city when they discussed the possibility of leaving, warmer climes. The bitter bite of the winds, she thought, should have been enough to finish off her tree. And yet somehow, it continued to flourish during the harshest seasons.
Petroska did what she could for the tree. She kept a small pair of thin metal scissors in her purse for when it needed a bit of pruning. She sprinkled the occasional packet of food she would stop by the florist to pick up. Actually, she shoplifted it but she didn’t think the owners of the flower shop, a pair of rosy-cheeked, round-faced brothers, minded.
As time passed and she got over the initial shock, Petroska started to feel sorry for the tree, growing on the side of her head instead of firmly rooted in soil, connected to the earth like every other tree she had ever met. But somehow, as time passed, the tree’s obvious health turned her pity into something more like respect. She began to walk more upright, her head lifted proudly to show off the crimson foliage. For the long spring and summer months and half of fall, the tree glowed crimson, setting her own auburn tresses ablaze. She knew they were in sync, a symbiotic pair if there ever was one. No parasites here, she thought. Until the spring when the tree began to whisper to her.
Leaves whispering, raising to a dull roar at the barest hint of a breeze. They spoke of far-off places, of peoples, and creatures, and ways of being she had never imagined. Eventually they even spoke of those warmer climes, so she knew it wasn’t just a legend invented by her city. Petroska’s ears were entranced. Her mind was held captive by what she heard, for not only were the topics of great interest, but the whispers were so charming, so much poetry in their movements, that she may as well have been on a ship sailing through siren territory. Only instead of being commanded to dash herself to pieces, the tree was recruiting her to go exploring. The tree, having worked so hard to not be rooted to one place forever, was thirsty for adventures.
