Tree-Parents

My parents are big, lush, green trees.

They listen. They are always there when I need them. I can lean on them. They hold space for me. They dry my tears with their leafy hands. They protect me with their branch arms. I hide behind them, they never hide behind me.

They don’t shame me, yell at me, hit me, gaslight me, guilt trip me, abuse me, force me to love them, or pull my hair. They don’t force-feed me browned bananas turned to jelly until my body turns inside out. They don’t tell me to starve after eating vanilla frosted birthday cake, or five fries which is one too many fried potato sticks.

They don’t date ex con crackheads that set their down pillows on fire while I’m learning to dance my name in kindergarten. They don’t beat them like a piñata in front of my new set of fresh eyes that have only seen five summers and even fewer episodes of Bert & Ernie.

They don’t drink vodka like it’s oxygen to their lungs until I have to peel them off the cold, navy bathroom tiles like one of those bad quality stickers that tear and leave behind sticky residue damaging your nails.

They don’t love me too much or not enough. They don’t just love me when I love them. Their love is as stable, constant, and deeply rooted in the ground as they are. I have to do nothing to receive it. It just is.

Big, lush, green trees are my parents.