an unfinished Christmas tree.
The snow comes from the very water last summer.
How would you decorate this Christmas Tree?
It’s almost Christmas again, and before me stands an empty tree – bare branches reaching out like quiet hands, waiting to hold something beautiful. I stare at it, and for a moment, it feels like a reflection of myself: unfinished.
If I were to decorate it, I wouldn’t start with glittering baubles or perfect, shiny lights. I’d begin with something small and personal – a ribbon, perhaps. Something soft, winding around the branches like the passing of time, threading moments together. Each loop a quiet nod to the days I held close this year: the small victories, fleeting laughs, late nights spent dreaming, and afternoons spent playing games that reminded me to feel alive.
Next would come the lights, but not the kind that flash and scream for attention. I’d choose the soft, warm ones. The glow of comfort, like lamplight spilling through a window after a long, cold day. They’d remind me that even when my world feels dim, there’s a part of me that still shines – no matter how faint.
For ornaments, I wouldn’t pick anything polished or perfect. Instead, I’d gather little mismatched pieces that mean something only to me. A silver ornament for the days I sat quietly and let my imagination roam. A golden star to represent the goals I’m still chasing, even if they feel far. A tiny, cracked glass bell – fragile but beautiful – to remind me that it’s okay to carry imperfections.
At the top, I’d place something unexpected. Not the traditional angel or star, but something that feels true. Maybe a paper crane I folded late one night, when I couldn’t sleep and needed to keep my hands busy. A symbol of hope, of patience, of creating something from nothing.
By the time I finished, the tree would still be imperfect – crooked lights, uneven branches, ornaments hung with no clear pattern. But it would be mine. Every decoration a piece of who I am, where I’ve been, and where I still hope to go. It would no longer be an empty tree. It would be a quiet celebration of the little things I hold close, the magic I sometimes forget to see in myself.
I step back, and the room feels warmer now. The empty tree has transformed into something full – full of me. Unfinished yet alive.
