the tree

24 Nov

Almost went to bed without telling you about my feelings. Feelings, always, so many feelings, about stupid things, little things, like driving my brother’s car to the parking lot at the mall to buy a Christmas tree with Hot Fiance. A real Christmas tree. The first real one we’d have in four, five, or six years. Feelings about the way the ground is always wet under the big white tent crowded with Douglas Firs, Noble Firs, people sniffing them, touching them, imagining them strewn with lights beside the window in the room facing the street. Feelings about finding a tree, choosing a tree, one smaller than the others but just right for two strings of lights, for the window in the room facing the street, and then being asked for eighty-nine dollars in exchange. Feelings about thanking the man in the smelly t-shirt and board shorts, thanks, but no thanks. About walking away. About feeling that eighty-nine dollars could possibly buy my happiness, but maybe not, should not, we need the money for real life. Feelings about discouragement after the first five minutes when there were always at least two other places we’d planned to look at anyway. Feelings about driving to City Mill in my brother’s car with his spare key, because he might want us to think he has his keys, but they’re lost. But they’re actually in the garage on the pool table under some rubber car mats where he left them two days ago. Saw them when Dad and Hot Fiance were turning things over to look for a tree stand for the perfect tree we found at our second stop. The tree we stuffed in the back seat of my brother’s car, that shed needles there we picked out with our hands, that smelled like Christmas, looks like Christmas now, strewn with lights beside the window in the room facing the street.


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