by Karen Abbott
I tried and tried, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had planned to take down the Christmas tree over the weekend. I warned my daughter ahead of time:
“Now when you come back, the tree’s going to be down.”
“But you said we wouldn’t take down the tree until we move!”
“I don’t want to leave it to the last minute,” I replied stoically. Then, more honestly, “Plus, it’s going to be sad for me and I want my last night here to be happy, not sad.”
Recent visitors to our perch have all commented on the brightly-lit Christmas tree, still commanding its prominent place in the cramped living room. When they ask why it’s still up, I stumble and fumble over my words. It’s just too precious to take down. It’s even more difficult to try to explain why.
When my daughter sees it tomorrow, she’ll squeal with delight. I tried several times today to pack it up, to wrap each specially-chosen ornament with padding I scrupulously saved.
Instead, I paced and turned in circles, half-heartedly exasperated about what to pack next. “The Tree,” a deep voice insisted from within.
“No,” was the absolute answer.
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