No, the tree must be a sentient, viable being who, knowing its days of service are drawing to a close, begins to divest itself of its glorious raiment slowly, ritualistically, with a little help from the cat. As its needles begin their desiccative process, and its limbs grow weaker and more fragile, they gently bow to the ground, sliding ornaments one by one to the floor, along with its little crewcut needles. Then, naked and bald it stands, clutching the lights around its shivering skeleton in a last effort at modesty. THe red velvet angel who reigned over all these past six weeks, continues to bravely play her harp as she tilts drunkenly, exhausted, toward the floor. THere is no more water in the stand; the woman of the house declared the death official several weeks ago when she almost bled out after being acupunctured by pine needles during the daily crawl underneath. No one bothers to turn the lights on anymore, and only the cat continues to pay any attention at all.
I would weep, but I am the one with small scabs all over her body, who will have to sweep up these needles and pack these ornaments and comfort the cat when he goes into deep mourning at the tree's disappearance. And, after all, it has fulfilled its destiny, which is all we can hope to do in this life. |
