The Christmas Tree

It was always Wayne's job to string the lights on the tree.

We had differing ideas about what made a good looking tree. He liked sparse and open. I liked full and bushy. We usually compromised and got the kind I liked. We’d set it up together, and then he’d get the lights on. In the early days we had strings of lights with screw-in bulbs. They were Christmas lights, but they were bigger than what we use now. Once they were on the tree, I’d unscrew every bulb, put a reflector behind it, and screw it back in. I liked the reflected lights; they took me back to my own childhood Christmases. But those lights got hot, actually melted the needles of the fake tree we had for a while at 722.

I mention it because yesterday morning I finished putting the lights on the little tree I bought. Lola and Bryan came and helped me set it into the stand, and I keep it in plenty of water. The fragrance of it has sweetened the air in my house, which is why I always like a fresh tree. I’ve put it in the east corner by the front window. A good place, one we never used before, and I have fixed it so the light switch turns the tree lights on and off. Handy.

My wreaths are up already, and today I’ll finish trimming the tree, put the skirt around the bottom, vacuum the room, and set out some familiar Christmas pieces: the old snow globes, a few Santas, and my nativity set—made for me in 1979 by my friend Joyce. Then the house will be looking like Christmas.

But the lights. It’s a hard job for me to do alone, not impossible, but hard. I kept looking across the room as I worked to where the tree stood that last Christmas we had with Wayne. I knew he wouldn’t be there. It's nearly six years, after all, but I looked anyway, half expecting to see him. Well, that’s just what happens when you want something so much; you think it might happen.

I can see him in my memory, standing by the tree. That year, 2002, I came home a few days before Christmas. I had been somewhere out of town, visiting one of our children, I think, and had Christmas on my mind as I headed home. We’d need to get a tree, get going on things. You know how the mind goes home before you get there.

I walked in and there stood Wayne beside a big beautiful tree. He had chosen it—a compromise tree, sort of—brought it home, and decorated it entirely, lights and ornaments and everything else. It was all done. A surprise for me, a gift for me. I will not ever forget his face.

Now the rest I do not exactly remember. What I hope is that he saw in my face that I was pleased and very glad for his gift. No buts, no reservations, just “how wonderful it looks, how wonderful that you did this, oh thank you.” That is what I needed to say, to show him, because I saw in his face a clear, open plea for exactly that, for me to be happy with it. Oh how I hope I showed him that I was.