Bianca Zou

My tree needs a haircut. Not from the green leaves or the thick branches like you’d expect, but from the bark. It’s thick and points out on the edges but even rougher in the center. I scribble on a piece of scrap paper, layering out what I want the tree to look like. 

I snatch my dad’s pair of barber scissors and return to the park where dizzying children scream throughout the brick buildings. The metal playground clashes against bruised bones. Beads in a play wheel are raised up, then crash down like hard-beating ocean waves.

In the distance, a street piano murmurs. Its keys play softly at first, but are quickly smashed down, creating a bleak cacophony of noise. My tree is smothered by endless, breathless bird chirps. I begin by using sandpaper to remove the dying bark. Then I use the thick scissors to trim the growing green moss at its ankles. My tree is already looking better. The baby birds flutter their delicate wings, creating a gentle flapping sound in the air. They’re taunting me, saying in a low-pitched voice that I can’t possibly make my tree look alive again.

I stare at the tree. It needs more work. I bring my dad’s ladder, fumbling and almost falling down a couple of times before I’m finally back at the park. I rest the ladder and shake my red and white spotted hands. Once I’m ready, my feet make their way up to the sky and start breaking the branches in half. They expose a darkened green sap that dries up on the tips of my fingers. When the moon ascends and the stars reveal themselves, I begin to drag the ladder back home and throw the branches to the side of the crosswalk. I’ll clean it up later. I’ve had a long day of work today. 

The next day, my dad wakes me up early in the morning.

“Come on, honey. It’s time to go to the park.” His feet drag out of my bedroom.

I get up quickly and throw on a dress that’s closest to my bed. It’s dotted with sprouted sunflowers on a green background. Dad makes sure I’m seated properly in his green truck. 

“Ready, sunshine?” He smiles warmly at my green eyes and crooked teeth.

I nod and he starts the rumbling engine. Dad’s skinny hands turn the steering wheel in the direction of the playground. The park emerges into view; fresh grass flows smoothly with the summer wind, and children, some of which I recognize as my classmates, run frantically around the crosswalk. 

I hop off the truck and watch my dad collect his chainsaw, leather gloves, and hat. His hat reads Maggio Landscaping and Works.

I direct him to my tree. My classmates stare at my tall dad, who reaches out for my hand. I feel the leather skin against mine. 

“Are you ready?” Dad says.

“Yes, I am.” I sigh.

“You did a good job. Come on, Michael. Help me get this started.” Another sturdy man walks next to my dad. The terrifying sound of a chainsaw jumps into my ears. Dad holds the stubborn machine still and bends down to the stump of my tree.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m very sorry.”

I hear my tree cry out to me. Its leaves are stomped on the sidewalk, branches snapping against one another, and sap melting, melting away.

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Bianca is a 16 year-old writer who dreams of publishing books and poetry throughout her life. She recently attended the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio and hopes to continue with another program next summer. She loves writing fiction, short stories, and sometimes experiments with flash fiction and poetry.