The Valentine Tree
I brought the wisdom of the woods into my house and I am loathe to let it go
For a moment, the afternoon light falls coolly through the wood blinds and settles on the middle branches of the Noble fir. A string of white lights skims the branches, narrow at the top, wide like the hem of a skirt at the level where cats sniff for water.
At this hour, in the light, I notice the latest fall of needles to the floor. Strong branches do their duty, stout and upright but visibly sapped.
I sag into the armchair and wonder if today is the day to take it down. If I have the oomph.
It’s odd to have a Christmas tree up for Valentine’s Day. Probably unsafe.
I should take it down.
*
I shopped early this year, finding a straight, tall tree. When I buried my face in it indiscreetly at the retail lot, it gave off a musk of mountain weather and oriole daydreams.
It came in like a member of the family through the back door, green and cold, shaking snow from its hair, and laughing.
A cut tree ages almost as fast as a cut tulip. I have been reluctant to haul it to the curb just for losing a few needles and drying at the skin.
*
The ornaments came down in January.
White and gold glass bulbs and clear icicles went in their original boxes. Wood and glass and paper objects handmade by the kids and labelled with each year of school went between layers of tissue paper.
The tree held still while I prised the hooks gently off of stiff stems. I lifted fragile ornaments slowly away with two hands, like unpinning a corsage. We worked together, the tree and I, to open space between branches again, leaving only the white-yellow lights.
*
*
The house is cold with shadows. The tree accepts them as companions in the night, asking no questions.
Before 6:00 a.m., the timer makes a soft click and tiny lights come on.
The Noble fir knows nothing of our failed plans, here in this house. Where it comes from, it never learned words of reproach.
It smiles benevolence with a cone of white-yellow teeth.
*
When I sit still, the Noble tells me about the wide world. Right now somewhere, scarves of sunlight blow through a forest, alighting on shoulders and moving on like mountain bluebirds.
When I take the tree down, a little magic will slip out of the wide sleeve of morning.
*
*
The string of lights grows long on the floor as I unwrap it from the tree. I bear the fragile bulbs like hand-made lace, the gnarled cord like the train of a wedding dress draped across my arms and spilling out behind.
I let it all fall to lift the star down from the leading branch.
At my feet, the cord curls into the shape of a heart.
I move the whole white length of it carefully so as not to crush the bulbs.
*
When I lean in to the trunk with gloved hands, the Noble fir is lighter than two months ago.
In the moment of decision, it sheds a flurry of greenery into my hair, down my back, in my pockets, and into the eyelets of my shoes.
*
Your words brought the smell of a forest into my home. Thank you. What a lovely piece.
So lovely