My Tree

Grabbing her by her skinny little trunk I dragged her across the living room floor. I opened the balcony doors – both of them – and heaved her out. She crashed against a table with a thud, wobbled unsteadily three or four times and then came to a rest.

‘Stay out here and die, you thief of light,’ I barked. ‘You overgrown deciduous bully!’

I’d never imagined that an avocado seed could spawn such a chlorophylliated monstrosity. So tiny and fragile in youth, a full blown forest five years later. Even with prudential trimming and pruning she had managed to envelope both of the living room windows. Completely. Absolutely. Limbs sprouted hydra-like from seemingly everywhere. Leaves the size of tennis racquets. Furniture was first displaced and then disposed of. In the end I felt like I was living in an emerald green cavern. I, the human, was becoming etiolated.

It was early autumn; that night the temperature dipped below freezing. I could feel it through my blankets, see it etched in frost runes across my bedroom window. I slept restively.

The morning after I felt unwell, I was stricken with angst. Stumbling through my bedroom door the living room was now a blazing cauldron of untamed photons, the window now naked. I staggered across the floor, blinded, to the balcony. She lay on her side, tossed by stormy winds, beaten by the rain. Earth spilled out of her pot, dark, chocolate brown.

I opened the balcony doors – both of them – picked her up and dragged her back in. I patted down her leaves with a soft cloth. I gave her fresh new earth. Had the frost bitten? Was it too late?

I stood her once again before the living room windows.

‘I’m getting some coffee,’ I said. ‘Can I get you anything?’ I got no reply.