“Why are you undressing our Christmas tree?” my small son Matthew
asked as I unwound a shiny garland from our dried-out evergreen.
“I’m not undressing it, little guy; I’m taking it down.”
“Down?”
“Downstairs and out the door.”
“To plant it in our front yard?”
His eyes grew large with hope.
“No--it hasn’t any roots.”
“But you could put it in some water ‘til it grew
some. Like your fill-again-drum.”
“Philodendron, Matt Matt.
But, no, that wouldn’t work. A Christmas
tree is just a one-time thing. You bring it in
the house and enjoy it for a while. Then Christmas gets over, and the tree
dies. Come help me drag it out now, so
the city crew can pick it up.”
“Oh, Mom,” he wailed, “they’ll put it in the garbage truck
and take it to the dump! Couldn’t we just bury it beside our puppy's grave?”
“Well, we’d have to
dig a mighty hefty hole.”
“That’s okay.” The
little boy reached out to touch a withered branch. “It was such a friendly tree.”
 |
| Undressing the Christmas tree. |
