You bring a plain pine tree into your house and it is every fight your parents ever had about its height or straightness, the correct number of lights, or where the bare patch best be rotated. It’s the so-called “marriage saver” tree stand. It’s every pair of sweatpants she wore every year we decorated trees. And every shade of hair. And every time we played Bing Crosby albums while we did it. It is sickly thick egg nog with clumps of powdered nutmeg. It’s your father in a Santa suit with sleigh bells in the drive.
At very least, that’s how it smells.
It’s also “do you think it’s crooked?” and “stand back there and pass the string around to me,” and “make sure you hang that one to catch the light; it has to catch the light,” and “you already hung too many [red/green/gold] ones there.” My mother was…
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