In childhood, no fake tree for us.
Just after Thanksgiving, the family search transpired.
Mom and Dad preferred Douglas fir, six feet tall.
Dutifully, we kept the tree holder filled with water,
never used real candles. We put on lights, big ones,
blue, green, red, an inch long, then carefully hung on delicate,
colorful, round balls. The most difficult task: the icicles,
long, silver, reflective. They had to go on just so.
Years later, children gone, Mom and Dad bought an
artificial tree, fake Douglas fir, incredibly real in appearance.
When they left Missouri for Arizona every winter after harvest,
they abandoned Christmas trees, gave me the fake Douglas fir.
I still have it. How long? Decades, several at least. State of the art
when they bought it, it requires work, assembly, strings of lights.
Every year, I tell myself it is time to get one of those new trees with lights
already installed, so much easier to take up and down. I never buy one.
I cannot bear to part with Mom and Dad’s tree. One year, annoyed with
putting on lights, I decorated it lightless. I missed the lights. Now every year,
decades later, I assemble it, take the time to string the lights. Some of the lower
branches no longer stay, but I work around that, hang the colorful, delicate
Christmas ornaments I love, collected over years and years, wrap the base in
the red and white cloth given to me from Africa. On cold evenings, like this one,
I turn off the other lights, drink tea like my mother did, and remember my
childhood.
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