The Christmas Tree
Gita Tewari is a freelance Writer and Editor based in the Chicago area.
That Christmas, Mom said “I think we should get a tree this year.” I agreed, somewhat reluctantly, but feeling it was the least I could do since I hadn’t exhibited much Christmas cheer up to that point. We arrived at the tree lot as the sun was beginning to set and the snow was hard and crunchy under the tires of the car as I parked in front of one of the many piles of shoveled snow. As we tried to make our way over to the trailer to ask about the trees, it was hard finding a patch of road that wasn’t covered in ice so I got back in the car and drove the car around to face the trailer with the man in it. A red faced man was talking to mom and came over with her to price the trees for us.
I looked at him wondering how does one come to have a job selling Christmas trees. No one else was in the lot that day and I though how lucrative can this be. He walked around with us telling us how much each tree cost. Finally, mom saw a little tree lying on the ground with snow clinging to its branches. “How much is this one?” she asked. “That one’s $35,” he replied. I looked at it critically asking her how we could tell if it would be symmetrical. “It will be fine once the branches spread out,” she assured me. Once we realized that the artificial tree stand we brought would not work for a real tree because it had a hole in the bottom, mom remembered that we had a real tree stand in the basement and we left with the tree in tow.
“I think this is a good sign that we bought this tree,” she said once we got home. I nodded, hoping she was right. I hadn’t had a tree in my apartment for years. My cats had always tried to eat anything remotely leafy or green. I couldn’t remember the last time Mom and Dad had a real tree. The last few years, Mom had been so distracted with taking care of Dad that she didn’t have time to decorate or get a tree. Somehow, it felt right and strange all at the same time to be buying a tree without Dad with us.
Mom found the old tree stand in the basement and we propped the tree up by the back door to melt the snow. Finally we were able to set the tree up in the living room. Mom brought up the ornaments and lights from the basement the next day and that evening I began putting on the red and green balls and the ornaments Tom had given me over the years: the silver trumpet, the decorated ornament that always seemed somewhat oriental to me with its orange and red colors, and the Mikasa star. Mom also got some new lights to put on the tree and brought another strand from one of the outside bushes to add more lights. I looked to see if I had salvaged the Christmas lights from my apartment. They had still been hanging up in March when the fire happened, but they weren’t among any of the boxes of stuff I’d put in the basement when I arrived in March.
It’s funny because I remembered all those years when I was little; we never really seemed to have enough lights, but Christmas was such a magical time for me then. This year we finally had enough lights and yet, I would have given anything for those past Christmases when Dad was still with us. The branches had finally spread out, but the tree didn’t really look symmetrical until we decorated it. I joked to mom that it was like a woman who didn’t really look good until she was all decked out in her makeup and finery. She said, “I like out funny little tree,” somewhat affectionately.
I think we both felt better that we got the tree, but I missed Dad because I know he would have liked to see it. I missed him too the first time I looked out the back window and saw the tall fir tree across Mt. Prospect road decorated in holiday lights as it is every year. Wasn’t just last Christmas that I remember looking out that window at the lights and Mom saying how much he liked the tree? So much had changed and here we were trying to patch together some sense of a Christmas. All we can do is try I told myself. We’re not always going to feel happy or merry, but we have to try because if you give up, you might as well stop living.