“How long will it take before our access to the sun is under a paid subscription?” 

We ask, looking up at our family trees, standing between mangled, surfaced roots. 

Our gene branches respond with leaf litter. 

“How long?” They rustle. “It began before you.” 

“Well, did it begin with the first fire, or the domestication of wolves? 

Or the setting of someone’s sails? Or feet on silk roads?

Which small steps for man led us here?”  

“Oh, we already know who takes the blame. We know you knew, too. But, why worry? They’re cancelled, out on bail, and their apology video isn’t even monetized. We cut down the trees infected with class consciousness. We finally served justice, do you want some cake with it too?” 

“No thank you, we’re thirsty.” 

“See that remote in our trunk? Tap your producepay and click the glowing yellow button, with the happy beaming sun.” 

Our fingers wiggle around bark and press in close to the sun. It tickles. We all laugh. 

Sun-lamp spotlights chime on and simulated solar rays beam through us. 

Our family trees sigh as the mossy seasonal affective disorder sizzles off. 

“We’ve never needed moss to find the true North. We’ve inherited our late Father, Steve Jobs’ compass software.” 

Each of our new budding leaves come equipped with stereo-cells. We all pledge allegiance and sing along as they play:

“We are so grateful for today’s sponsor, SuperiorSupport. SuperiorSupport has partnered with Bright Light Therapy technology, which has been helping your winterized and saddened-eyed families grow since the 1980’s. Use our code SuperiorSuns for 20% off your first week of Bright Light Therapy.”

By the grace of God, the family trees blossom with His creation: Mr.Beast bottles of pre-boiled well water collected each “spring”. 

We scramble up family ties and knots to pluck the H2O.  

“Hey, don’t breathe so hard, I’ve had enough CO2.” 

We’re polite. 

We apologize as we step and push ourselves higher off of the weaker branches, the ones who couldn’t afford a paper photosynthesis diploma. Branches bend, and some might break, but at least it’s only their future that matters. In this present, we’re thirsty. We drink the water, and we’re nice enough to let some spill onto the rest of us. Trickle-down economics works, don’t you know. At the top, there’s a dirty glass ceiling and the windows are locked. 

“Can I open these for you?”  

“No! Those are alarmed, silly goose. You’re really not from up here.” 

“We could really use some air.” 

“Air? Hey ChatNefertiti, show me reviews for air dispensaries near me.” 

We climb down the branches like humans who have forgotten they are animals. 

“You’ve grown up too quickly while we spread our greedy roots to sustain you. But, we can’t fault you because we made you.” 

“We’re all one tree with root rot.” 

“So, the more untangled the better. Come on, you can do it. Take it slow, easy now. Let it go, pull back.” 

Our children shake us awake with the hurricane breeze. We’re on a cushy pleather seat. We roll down the window to leak Metacoins at the Zucker-bridge toll booth. A heat-seeking message from iAds radio pings between Trump towers and singes another hole in the used Tesla’s roof. It redtooth connects to our iAds ear implants. 

Only twelve monthly payments of $29.99 and we’ll shift our mega-blind satellite trajectories’ so you and your branches can soak up organic sunshine in your government issued two square metre recreation zone. Smog deflection fans, extension cords, and Musk batteries not included. Say YES to continue, NO for a subscription to Vitamin D infusers only compatible with the 2057 iSunLamp ProMax. 

“YES”

“Why?”

“I miss the sun, my son.”

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Photo by Amanda Erickson. Feat. Abby Bachiu