After a short period of adjustment, during which I get used to your size, your shape, your smell, I fall head over heels in love with you. I exclaim that you are even more wonderful (i.e., bigger, more nicely shaped, more receptive to adornment) than last year's love object.
Our affair blossoms. It doesn't matter to you whether I am being naughty or nice, lazy or productive, noisy or quiet... You simply stand tall and let me load your branches with sparkly lights and glittery baubles. You let me rearrange them as often as I like, with nary a complaint about broken twigs or lost needles.
You ask only for a drink of water every day.
In exchange, you cast a beautiful glow across our living room, and fill the house with your irresistible scent...
I declare my eternal love for you, and promise to keep you with me for as long as I can.
Then Christmas passes. And New Year's. You grow tired. Your branches droop and your needles fall. You stop drinking water.
I am bereft; I know what must happen next...
Sadly, I strip you of your ornaments and pack them away with the promise that I will bestow them on a new love next year.
Unadorned, you look smaller. You seem relieved. I know I must let you go.
We tip you gently onto a tarpaulin and drag you out the door and down the front stairs, being careful not to strew your needles across the lawn...
We lay you neatly perpendicular to the curb, and hope that the recycling crew will handle you with due care.
We will always remember you, Tree. You performed beautifully, and we could not be more pleased.
Rest in Peace. (Sigh.)
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