When the Christmas Spirit Dies, Know Where to Look
Sometimes it’s right there in front of you.
I grabbed a rusty saw. Debris from the previous year remained stuck between serrated teeth.
Running through an endless forest, heavy snow falling, would it cover our tracks? Should I leave breadcrumbs?
Strange men standing in an open barn. One handed me something to drink. Another prepared the netting.
Propping the annual victim upright in the garage as the rusty saw returned to its hanging place, amongst other rarely used ancient tools.
In another day, after the cut tree satiated a dying thirst, Dad would bring it into the house as Mom fetched boxes from crawl spaces.
The boxes, more tape than cardboard, contained a lifetime of collected cheer. Lights and hooks and ribbons and ornaments. The first box to be opened for Christmas.
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Childhood memories. Strung together like a candy necklace, with time nibbling away, piece by piece.
I can no longer recall entire trips to the tree farm, or whether I drank hot chocolate or cider in the barn. I can’t remember slinging the tree over the undersized Honda, or even what kind of Honda Dad drove. Only that it was a dark gray (or was it black?)…
