Christmas Trees

By

Gary Dorman Wiggins

He removed the last ornament from the tree. Last winter it had been allowed to stand throughout the vacation period. That year, the separation was only physical. The shared happiness held not the least expectation of danger. This year the tree came down before Christmas. Her ornaments. She put them on. He felt a twinge of pity for the tree as he thought of the flames that would eventually engulf it.

All of the tinsel icicles were off—no, not all—some of them clung to the tree like glimmering silver snakes. He shook it violently to free the remaining tinsel. The pieces lay scattered about the floor, mixed with the broken needles.

She got such pleasure from decorating the tree—the child. She is angry. She is serious. She is repentant. She is a child. She is not. The tree is not.

I must go to my own tree. It will be firm and youthful and stand for-my-ever. And the season will not matter, the stand no longer relevant. There will be no need for water to prolong its life, and the tinsel, if it were there, would be drowned in a glow so soft, yet powerful that sunshine shall not reign again.

Christmas comes but once a year. And on my Christmas, I too shall have a year, and there shall be gifts and the joy of receiving, and you will be there.

20 December 1968

A stripped Christmas tree is life’s saddest sight. Another stark reality letter like that of last August would sure be appreciated at this time. I need some more help killing fantasies. Christmas revives them. Just one more shake to strip away the persistent tinsel that clings to a tree whose ornaments were removed long ago, but which the fool owner kept watering with illusory raindrops. When the holidays are over, a tree should be burned. One can’t save a real Christmas tree for the future. Help me to burn this one.

17 December 1972