oh, christmas tree

It was her laugh. It was loud and brassy and genuine. I mean, she really laughed. We were visiting a nearby farm to cut down a Christmas tree. She’d taken me there. The old lady at the door said, “Take your pick.” I was about to, when she – not the old lady, but her – asked where I’d put my saw. I told her I didn’t bring one. I didn’t have time to tell her that on all the other tree-cutting excursions I’d been, saws were provided. She laughed. I mean, she really laughed. It was a how-can-you-cut-down-a-tree-without-a-saw laugh. She was wearing a hat. She looked good in hats. And she laughed – at me – so hard that she had to grab my arm – or did just anyway. And it was ok; it was better than ok. It was somehow so unabashedly wonderful that I remember it, today, years later. When we broke up, or whatever that was called, I gave her back all the gifts she’d given me. I thought about those the other day. I thought I might want them, again. Then I thought this: What I really want is to hear that laugh, again. That way. Like then. But I think, perhaps, that that is gone, too.