Sister is a pine tree. She is growing into a big, big thing. I am sad she has no bones. I am sad her blood is sap. But sister will live to be five hundred years old. And I can use her bark to clean my teeth, pin her needles into my braids, and sleep amongst her branches. She sends me messages through her roots, saying she’ll miss me in the future when she turns three hundred. Saying she wishes I could sprout into a tree as well and grow right beside her, until our limbs intertwine. So, I run into a lake and dive to the bottom to die. In my next life, I return to sister as a deer. Neither of us are pleased. I stumble off a crag and return as a fly. I streak across a car window and return again as a human. Sister is disheartened and older, and I am hurting to be a tree. I dig a hole in the earth near her trunk and stick my body into it, standing upright. I must treat myself as a seed. I will curse the skies until it rains, and I grow into something massive with branches. Months pass by but no transformation comes. At night, I climb out the dirt and take an axe to all the trees surrounding sister. When she awakes, she cries. She feels bald and lonely. Hideous without the others. I die of shame and sadness. I return to sister as a dog, but she is old and will never outgrow the pain. I run with four legs into the street, tar beginning to cool from the afternoon sun. My paws stick in pitch, headlights hit my body, and a truck swings into me with heavy grace. I return to sister as a broken hip, limp leg, missing ear, and whimper. She is taller and her brains so high in the blue realm, I know she has forgotten me. Wind causes a bundle of her needles to fall upon my bloodied fur. I close my eyes, let loose a final breath, and try again.
Ananda Naima Gonzálezis a writer, educator, multidisciplinary artist, and performer residing in Harlem, NY. She carries a BA and an MFA from Columbia University, in poetry and fiction respectively, and has taught at Gotham Writers Workshop. Her words have appeared in BOMB, McSweeney’s, Catapult, Apogee, TheSouthernReview, Lampblack, Waxing & Waning, and TwinBirdReview. She has been a finalist for awards granted by GulfCoastJournal, LitMag, IndianaReview, BellinghamReview, and SmokeLongQuarterly, among others. Her mission is to honor the inherently sacred ritual of living. In addition to writing, she is also a professionally trained dancer and an accomplished choreographer and filmmaker.
