o quiet night

It is the first year, ever, that she will not have a tree. She is not sad about it. Or maybe it’s just because she doesn’t think about it much, if at all. She has become good at compartmentalizing, like this: Her place is too small for a tree and a tree would just be more mess to clean up, after the holidays. Plus, she can use the extra $35 a tree would cost, the economy being what it is. She has memories of grand trees, years ago, with presents spread beneath, while the snow fell, quiet and soft, outside, and the children giggled and buzzed with anticipation. Then, back then, the tree was the center of their Christmas celebration. When she lived in the country, after the divorce, she’d gone out in the moonlight at midnight, exactly, one year, and cut a tree from the forest, and she felt guilty about it, because she'd made a hole in the woods. She sits, tonight, in a room that looks the same as it did in August, September and October. Perhaps she’ll connect with the real idea of the holy day, this way. Or perhaps she’ll weep. She’s still not sure.