Seen at Elliott Bay Book Company at about 3:30 p.m., February 26th, 2014
Essa's father was a tree and her mother was a botanist. When he rocked her in his limbs, when he shook fruit from his branches for dinner, when he cushioned her head with his moss, her father rustled her heritage, the slaughter of his family, all for a paper mill, all for the printed word. Then Essa's mother would kiss her cheek and say that she didn't need books because all the stories she could ever want already lived in her head.
Essa's father died a few years ago--Asian Longhorned Beetle infestation--and her devastated mother went soon after, convinced she would never find another tree as sturdy and green. Essa moved to Seattle then, moved in with an anarcho-punk squatter who loved the outdoors and viewed written language as a tool of the Capitalist overlords. Today she found him sleeping with a young lithe tree, a sapling really, and when sap oozed from her eyes he said he was sorry but half just wasn't natural enough.
Essa is in the bookstore now, she is angry, she is flipping through the pages, eyes skimming over the shapes of words, feeling the paper, searching for family.
Today I ate nothing but meat, potatoes, beer, and an ice cream cone. I hate myself a little bit right now. I love Seattle, though. Gorgeous town.