I leaned against trees, wrapped my arms around trees, rode thick tree branches like they were horses. I swung from trees and hid in trees, and walked on limbs as if they were tightropes. I prayed to trees, I raged at trees. My half-brothers cut them down for money, and cut the bamboo too.

In my private forest, which isn’t mine, but belongs to the town, I watch this tree, and the spiral of fungi around its trunk. It might be my family tree: no hierarchy, no single ancestor, and certainly no single pattern.