Brooklyn, February 25, 2019. Miles of warehouses. Contents hidden behind foreign scripts. Brown cardboard boxes marked Beauty Supplies awaiting entry. I will not lie, I thought about stealing. Not for the beauty, for the supplies. Miles of free street art. A painted black boy was not looking at us through the real tree. Painted people climbed the neck of a giraffe, a ladder to the bright blue sky. Skeletons upon skeletons. Til death do we part. Everything slant, slanted. One of these claims is a lie.
Plastic rising from where we thought we’d buried it. Swirling resurrection. A second real tree rooted in steel, knocked over by a storm, a stand representing a standing tree. Should we pick it up, Mom? asked my twelve-year-old. No, answered my husband, maybe it is meant to lie that way. One of these claims is a lie.
I looked to my right and there was a third real tree, one empty white plastic bag and one empty black plastic bag hanging on February’s bare branches. And the people, even the real ones, felt like cardboard cut-outs. I could not see a single leaf. Not in the sky, not in the wind, not even lying on the ground. One of these claims is a lie.
Strong winds on Knickerbocker Ave. Close your eyes, I told my four-year-old. There is sand in the air. There is no beach here, she replied, with her eyes closed. I looked to my left and there was a pile of dry cement, a cement mixer, and no humans. I could not remember the particle name of cement. There is sand here because they are building, I told my daughter. Then: They are building here because there is sand. One of these claims is a lie.
This was now Manhattan. A fourth tree, the Human Tree exhibit at the Museum of Mathematics. My ten-year-old projected on a screen, his arms full of leaves, his arms’ arms full of leaves, his arms’ arms’ arms full of leaves. I bought myself socks the colour of a banyan tree leaf with the Pythagorean theorem printed on them. And the people in the museum, even the shadowed ones, felt like cardboard cut-outs. One of these claims is a lie.
A fifth tree, a giant fake banyan in the American Museum of Natural History. My ten-year-old wanted it for his bedroom. I set off an alarm leaning over the rail to get a closer look at a giant fake seedpod on the ground. I have that seed at home, I said. I collected it in Brazil. But it is a real one. Remind me to show it to you, I say to my children. The alarm subsides without consequence. Then, street people, street pamphlets, street CD peddler in Soho, a leaflet. Should we pick it up, Mom? asked my twelve-year-old. No, said my husband, let us let it lie that way. One of these claims is a lie.
We walked through Central Park and scrambled across rocks. We rode the carousel and my children made faces to resemble the ones painted on the horses. I bought earrings in the shape of cardinals made from wood. I could not see a single leaf. Not in the sky, not in the wind, not even lying on the ground. One of these claims is a lie.
One of these trees is my parents’ marriage.
One of these trees is my marriage.
The other three trees are my children.