Rooted

The roots sprouted when I was 16.

I thought it was hair at first until it got longer and faster, I saw a doctor and then 5, then 100. Each one had absolutely no idea what was wrong with me. I had MRI’s and CT scans, biopsies and surgeries. Each revealed no cause for the roots. You may have read of me in medical journals or the New York Times. The only known case of Radixrrhea. I even got a visit from the make-a-wish foundation and I got to swim with some dolphins.

But eventually, the novelty wore off. People stopped asking why the roots grew. But they got faster. 

By 18, the roots would grow an inch a day. By 20, I would stand up from the toilet and snap roots that had bound me to the seat. No matter how fast I clipped them, they latched on to anything near me. I once had the fire department cut me off of a public bench. The longer I stayed somewhere, the more stuck I’d be.

Eventually, I had enough. I packed a bag, and put it on the end of a stick like a cartoon hobo, and set off East. I walked through Ireland, France, Germany and Poland. Everywhere I went people had heard of me, they offered me food and to stay with them. They not only tolerated the roots I had left behind, but some people cherished them. I'm told a signed root of mine went for $400 on eBay. I heard stories from the people I visited and was invited to weddings of strangers. I was once asked to tell someone's husband that she wanted a divorce (I didn't do it). I learned how to busk, how to barter, et j'ai appris le français. All with only a hobo bag on my back. 

I met a girl. She’s really something special. Kind and considerate, but also stands up for what she believes. Often I would just take the insults people hurl at me, but she shouts back. She fought for us.  

We got pregnant. She felt like we should find a place to live, somewhere to settle down. I agreed.

We found our house, on 34th street, by accident. The realtor brought us to the wrong address, but we fell in love. It took a month for my roots to cover the entire floor. Three, for them to reach the ceiling. We shaped them around the windows and doors. Soon they sprouted flowers and vines, leaves and fruits. The roots got stronger, and we decided to take down the structure around them.

There is no longer a house on 34th street. If you want to visit, you need to look for the giant tree with a house-sized base. The door is drilled into the roots, the windows held up by the bark.

My wife’s the manager of a local market. It's nothing glamorous but it pays the bills. I stay at home with the kid and shave the roots on my skin when I need to go out, but mostly I just stay rooted to the home.

I pick fruit from the house for my wife to sell at the market. She does the dishes after I cook. We are both musicians. When she gets home we read and play songs, me on the guitar and her on the piano. Our son is getting quite good at the triangle.

It's been 30 years since the roots first sprouted and I thank whoever’s up above, that they did.

We are happy and healthy, lucky and loved.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.