Death of a Christmas Tree
©January 12th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
The rain fell today, when I wasn’t looking.
And the gloom gathered around me.
And I, stranger to myself,
Dismantled the Christmas Tree.
The ornaments, so bright, so delicate,
Came down, one by one,
And, tenderly wrapped in tissue,
Went into their box to sleep for
Yet another year, quiescent and docile.
Our daughter finds joy in Christmas
And Christmas trees, and therefore, so do I.
Together, we put up ornaments, and talk
And laugh at silly things, while we do so.
And usually, we take them down together,
Though not today.
Today, I got to work on it alone, and
Took down the lights that were wound
Round and round and round the tree
By my husband (who does the lights).
I unwound the lights, and felt dizzy
Going round and round, like a pagan
Dancing in the woods, in a
Meaningless ritual which spun meaning
Out of the cocoon of our lives.
I do this for our daughter,
For the magic of bright lights
In the dark days of winter, when sadness
Knocks on the door, wanting to come in.
But we talk of Christmas and presents,
And dream of snow and make hot chocolate,
And eat roasted vegetables,
And make a fire in the fireplace.
The dog watched me today, as I put things away
Patient, and polite, and curious, and puzzled:
All this trouble for a tree?
She takes it in her stride, though,
And has never interfered, even in her
Playful, destructive puppyhood.
Respectful and quiet, half-dreaming,
She watches the tree, and listens, and dozes
While the tree dies, as it has been dying
Little by little since we brought it home.
And my daughter, when I told her,
Said sadly, I’ll miss our Christmas Tree.
So will I, I reply, it was a good tree.
Shedding needles, the tree dies,
My heart is sore.
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