A tree began growing outwards from their television
screen. He believed it to be the hand of God. His mother
said God would never be so brittle, never born of pixel.
He would grow strictly as a steel pillar. The son says,
If that were so, than there are many many Gods and
man has created these many many Gods all across the
world. The mother told the son that the steel pillar
that God would be, would look like metal but be lucid
like water, transient like smoke, thin like a whistle, yet
bulky paradoxically. The son is not young so he understands
what she is telling him. He understands what everybody
already knows or should know or even shouldn’t. Are you
a wise woman, he asks. No. Are you clairvoyant, he asks.
No. Are you this. No. And that. No. Then these and those. No.
She leaves the son with nothing and yet he wants. The tree
continues to grow until it presses against the far wall. He asks
her one more question. He asks it sitting across the trunk of
the anomaly. Should I be confused? Yes. This may be the hand
of God but at the same time it is your own. It has grown as
fast as you have questioned me and I have not disappeared,
but like an answer that fills you with lacking, that pulls from
you the earth that you’ve swallowed, it will recede like intention.
The son has always been there. The mother has always been there.
The tree is television sickness. The tree is a miracle and a thought.