it’s the tree…

It’s the tree.

Most of what I remember is laying on the carpeted floor on my belly, dressed in some kind of cotton pajamas, old enough to be the softest clothing ever, tucked into the corner of the dining room, in some other world. The bottom of the tree was my access point - this was where I was able to reach up into the guts of the pine, and dance my miniature creature ornaments along an intricate highway system of twisting branches. The ornaments - tiny Santa-likes living in snow-covered orange peel homes, snowmen with holes in which to insert Christmas lights for carrot noses, holiday rodents with brooms to sweep about their paths, tiny clay wreath frames with my sister’s school mug smiling out at me… I would immerse my head into the string lit forest, into these tiny lives, as long as bedtime held off, lost in the playful creation of giving being to the inanimate… all dressed in the blaze of little colored bulbs burning in between the pine needles…

And my mom… she would be on the other side of the kitchen table, dressed in her nightgown and robe, sipping white wine, Franzia, and watching TV. Nowadays, I often darkly assume my mom was always sitting there, whether it was holding the newborn me, or sitting on the hearth next to my father, or at the kitchen table drinking wine, but always with her mind somewhere else, very far away - sad and preoccupied, longing and regretful. But I think the truth of the matter is, she was right there, loving my angel innocence, brought into peace by her child’s awe as I stared up into the secret world of the Christmas light lit pine tree…

the tree - something she wanted to put up every year, without fail, and prepare by decoration, knowing that her beautiful son would lie on his belly and glow in its illumination, so very nearby.