If I Were a Tree

by Perry Kemper

If I were a tree, I would bear fruit. Come spring, flowers would burst from my skin, unfurling as my blood dried. In autumn, my leaves would set ablaze, vermillion flames burning my hair. I picture myself a plum tree like the one in the neighbor’s quiet garden on the corner. The plums would be the dark reds and purples of my skin when it bruises. My blossoms would be pale pink, the bark a solid taupe. My fragrance would be that of honey drizzled over fresh snow.

In elementary school, I learned that flowers were for girls. And so it followed that trees with flowers or fruits were female. The male trees had no flowers or fruits, just pollen. My plum tree would fall for a pollinating tree, communicating in honey-sweet messages flown back and forth by the bees. She would bear fruit that would cling to her branches like hundreds of tiny children.

Dioecious trees are trees that conform to strict sex divisions. Each individual is male or female, never both. But they only compose five percent of trees. The other ninety-five percent do not abide by such strict binaries. They distribute their sexual attributes in a number of various ways, unplagued by the rules of pink and blue.

If I were a tree, I do not think I would care much for gender. Such a term has no use for a tree. Trees need sun, water, phosphorus, and nitrogen-rich soil. If I were a tree, my roots would extend deep into the earth. In the nooks of my branches, squirrels would rest and birds would sit. I would dance in the wind and crane my limbs up to reach the sun.

I envy the freedom of trees, not because they can be anything, but because no one cares what they are. If I were a tree, I would bear fruit; I would adorn myself in flowers. But I would not be expected to paint my lips for a man or prefer dolls to daggers. If I were a tree, I would only need to be.