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When I was twelve the tree was a sapling, just a tiny sprout that tickled my lungs when I laughed. The doctor said it was probably asthma and prescribed an inhaler. My mother made me use it twice a day, even though we both knew it wouldn’t help.

By high school, the tree had grown enough that I could feel its branches pressing against my ribs. I had to sleep on my back, otherwise the leaves would rustle and keep me awake. Sometimes I’d cough up small twigs, which I’d hide in my pocket and throw away when no one was looking.

The guidance counsellor asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said I wanted to be a forest, but she wrote down “forestry” on my university application.

My twenties were the worst. The tree had grown tall enough that its crown pressed against the top of my skull. I started getting headaches, and sometimes I’d find bird nests in my hair. Small ones, usually wrens or finches. I didn’t have the heart to remove them.

I tried therapy. Dr. Martinez said the tree was a metaphor for my inability to connect with others, that I was “rooted” in my own problems. I nodded and paid his fee, but I knew he was wrong. The tree wasn’t a metaphor. It was a Tuesday.

The tree started flowering in my thirties. Tiny white blossoms that made me sneeze constantly. People said I looked good though, that I had a “natural glow.” I got promoted at work. Women said I smelled like spring.

By late summer, the fruit was small, about the size of crabapples, but there were hundreds of them. They hung from the inside of my ribs like Christmas ornaments, fermenting in my body heat.

I was tired more often. I found it hard to pay attention, started slurring my words during meetings. My supervisor called me into her office and said I smelled like a distillery. I tried to explain about the tree, but she’d already made up her mind. She said the company had a zero-tolerance policy for drinking on the job. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t drinking — I was being drunk. But HR was there, and they had papers for me to sign.

Now I’m forty-two, my neck is stiff, and the tree has grown through me completely. Its roots curl around the arches of my feet, its branches bulge against my skin. I think I’m hollow, inside, and children stare at me on the street. But sometimes, when the wind blows just right, I can feel birds landing on my arms. They sing, and their songs echo through my chest.

My neighbor asked me yesterday if I was happy. I told him I was content. He said that wasn’t the same thing.