Our
Xmas tree evolved and developed over years and years. It was a
masterpiece of
chaos and proof of the existence of
beauty through excess. Blinking lights, colored lights and three different colors of
garland at least:
silver and
gold, red and possibly green. I think we even found
blue one year.
It started with the standard assortment of
nondescript bells and uninteresting balls in
metallic pastel hues. But it grew with a box of this and a set of that from whatever
fundraiser we brought home to grandma. It expanded with gifts from the neighbors when they couldn't think of anything else to give. It grew with a random selection of the things we made in our
grade school classes over time. It collected all the
milestones of the ages as we grew.
We stopped putting up the
tree when my
grandmother gave up her little house down the street and moved into an
apartment in a
retirement community. I don't think my
father ever forgave her for moving on him so unexpectedly, and so the
family was never quite the same. There wasn't space for a tree in the two small rooms, so all the
ornaments flew off to places unknown - probably parts of our
basement and to the homes of friends of friends, but I never tracked any of them down.
We started opening
gifts under the three-tiered unit of
shelves where my grandmother placed her
ceramic figurines and cards. I think we ever lined the shelves with
tinsel one year, in
a sad little salute to the things we used to have.
This year I've spent most of the
holiday season with a different family, one I'm living with somewhat randomly because the lady who owns the house needs the
rent. We put up the tree together, but it wasn't quite the same. Her tree is
beautiful, mind you. It glows with bright white lights and long white strings of beads. It's alive with translucent
snowflakes, clear glass balls with
intricate frosted designs, and bells in blue and silver.
But it doesn't feel right. Her tree is carefully crafted through her own time and pains to be a
reflection of delicate care and beauty. Nothing is out of place. Everything matches itself and the room around it. The blue of the balls is the same as
the blue of the carpet. It makes a lot more
sense than ours ever used to.
But I think ours was
a reflection of our family. Almost every piece had a story. We knew exactly where it came from and nothing matched anything else and the lights were bizarre with half
blinking, half steady. The
star at the top was a completely different color from anything else. There were
creatures that almost made you think the branches could walk away, with distorted elves and
wooden angels in tiny glass bells, and cats serenading and
fairy tale characters. There was that small felt
wreath I made when I was five. Ours had a story. Ours
was us.
Fractured and disjointed and nonsensical in an almost
lyrical way. Chaotic in every possible way that my new
housemate's tree makes peace of the room and settles the heart with
dreams of nostalgia for all of the things we never had.
But our tree, as stupid as it seemed -- our tree made me think we were even a family,
disparate elements come together for
eclectic reasons that don't always dare to make sense.
The
memory of it almost makes me want to go
home.
With the small
exception of the fact that
I know that it's already gone.