All my old friends
wrapped in old paper
placed in old boxes
stored in the closet
for another year.
Again.
When I was three, I threw such a fit that our tree stayed up until April.
The only way my parents could get rid of that tree was to set the alarm for
two in the morning and sneak it out of the house. My father dragged it, like
a thief in the night, to some other neighborhood so I would not see it lying,
abandoned, on our curb. I smile to think of all the ways that my father, just
four years home from serving his country during World War 2, found so
much joy in pleasing me, a long-awaited only child.
Nowadays, the tree comes down half way through January. Not because of
me, though. It’s Ken who’s in such a hurry to get back to normal. And he
doesn’t set any clocks, either. He just gets right up off the sofa and
announces that he is taking down the tree. Just like that. I concede, though,
when there are no more little cat throw-ups under the table, behind the
sofas, in all the hard-to-reach places, (the sorry result of long drinks of tree
water), that getting back to normal is not such a bad thing.
I keep some old favorites in bowls here and there but most are in
the closet.
And, even though I know it’s ridiculous (this is not a Raggedy Ann story,
after all), I wonder what they are doing all year.
And if they are as sorry as I am to see another Christmas pass by.
