It’s the middle of January and my Christmas tree is still up – well, partly. It took me two weeks to put up the tree because I was feeling so tired.
Now, it’s taking weeks to take it down just because I hate the task so much.
I love my Christmas tree. I love the twinkle of the lights. I love all the little ornaments, each one with a special memory or a special symbolism. I love the shiny balls and the beads I use. I love all the little red and gold colored bows I put all over the tree, and even the big red bow I put on the top – mostly because my angel has a tendency to flop over and take a death defying dive off the tree. The last time her wings were “clipped” sort of speak, and now she spends the holidays as a wingless centerpiece.
I’ve known the tree needs to come down. The stockings need to be put away along with the little snowmen and Santas that live on shelves around my apartment. I have a small nativity scene and thus I leave it up all the time.
But even though I’ve known these things, in the dark of the evening I’ve enjoyed the lights from the tree too much, like a warm blanket around your shoulders on a cold night. I stare at my tree the way a baby stares at a mobile over their crib. There’s something hypnotizing about those lights and the colorful sparkles of the tree. Unless I’m very close, I can’t even see well enough to pick out the ornaments. Maybe that makes the tree even more mesmerizing.
At any rate, the tree is slowly being packed away. I set a box next to it and every time I walk by I wrap up a few more ornaments in the old newspapers and carefully slip them into their boxes. Guests have had to move around the pile of old newspapers and the box – but hey, you do what you can do.