We dug the cardboard boxes out of their basement hiding places. Your aunt and I started pulling ornaments one by one out of the boxes to hang on our newly erected Christmas tree.
“Oh, this is for when we moved into our house,” I recalled, holding up a house key-shaped ornament with the year “1993” etched across its face.
“Do you remember painting this one when we were little?” your aunt said, as she displayed a terribly painted ornament of two kittens hanging on a ball of yarn.
Your grandmother, grandfather, sister and I continued this tradition throughout my years of college. We would pull the ornaments from the boxes, fondly recalling the memories we had gathered as a family over the years.
After I landed my first reporting job and moved into my 800-square foot apartment, I was most excited for Christmas time. It meant that I could continue my ornament tradition with your dad. I knew I wanted to carry on the tradition with my own family. But I wanted something extra. I wanted to make it somehow more memorable, more special.
So, I decided that he and I would cut down our very own Christmas tree. I did my research and found a tiny tree farm about an hour’s drive from my apartment. It allowed us acres of land to search for the perfect tree. We drove down curvy, hilly roads and finally arrived at the tree farm. In my head, we would have no problem finding the perfect tree, cutting it down and loading it on top of my blue Honda Civic. It would be easy to haul up a flight of stairs for display in my living room windows.
At the tree farm, we parked the vehicle. I jumped out and looked down. And down. And down. I was literally standing on the side of a mountain. Determined, I trekked down the mountain, hand chain saw in tow and your dad trudging behind me. We had descended about 500 feet when I found my tree standing erect and tall — it was the perfect height and width. It was glorious. I began sawing. And sawing. And sawing. But I wasn’t getting anywhere. I looked up at your dad, begging for his help with my eyes but too proud to ask for it.
“Let me see the saw,” he sighed. He cut down the tree in a few swift strokes. Then we looked up. And up. And up. We had to drag the tree back to my car. Wearily, Steve grabbed the tree and started slogging up the snow-covered mountain.
That was the last time we ever cut down a tree for Christmas. However, after we were married, I continued to insist that we get a live tree. There were fiascoes every year with getting the tree inside our home. Our ceiling still bears a scar from one particularly brutal encounter with a tree.
This year, there will be no tree. There will be no Christmas decorations. I’ve really been struggling with thinking about the holiday this year. I had looked forward to sharing those memories and experiences with you. I wanted them to become annual traditions. I wanted you to be able to share our funny family holiday stories with your children. I wanted you to laugh with me as your father struggled yet again to get the tree inside the house. I wanted to reminisce with you as we hung ornaments.
“Oh, that’s for the year you were born,” I would say to you, as you hung ornaments on the tree. “That one was for our dog, Sadie. Do you remember Sadie?”
So, for me this year, it is too raw, too painful to think about what memories we could have been making with you. Instead, we are partaking in a new tradition — we are renting a cottage on a lake. Far away from all the blissful families with their own holiday traditions. Just your dad, me, your aunt and some of our friends. Don’t worry — you will still be with us as we establish a new tradition. Just not in the way I wanted or imagined.
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