This past Friday, January 13th, was the official tear down of the tanenbaum. I wasn’t ready to be done. I’m never ready. Yet I beware the development of a force-field emitted from all matters of things that overstay their welcome in one spot. I forced myself to do my job. No Valentine’s Day tree for me.
My kid made a plea for the tree’s life but to no avail. Fire hazard and all. I ripped that beautiful tree from the space like a large crunchy well lit band-aid and hurriedly swept up all evidence of it. I feel horror and shame for all those disrespected trees that showed up on December 26th around town; the remains of and good riddance to all those one night stands built on consumerism and the “gimmes”. I didn’t have the heart to lay it on its side so I stood mine up against the window. My son spoke kindly to it through the glass.
Oh what a glorious gift, a tree in the house. The most fabulous decorating idea ever. I wished I’d thought of it and patented the idea. We are left now with only the glowy melty memories of how the warm joy of all that light in the middle of the winter settled upon us. Seven one hundred and fifty bulb light strands make a person feel special. They seem almost a necessity with the winter’s waning supply of serotonin.
Although we may be halfway through winter, it’s still dark damn-it. I need light in my brain and in that corner. A placebo, methadone, something. Lights on the shefflera plant will have to do for a stunt tree. And I probably need a good distracting book to sit and read in the late afternoon sunshine with my cat that dreams of drinking the water from the tree stand and batting breakables off the bottom boughs. Faretheewell Christmas.
