It was like ripping off a Band-Aid. After church it had to go—the tree. Tonight I can’t stand to look at that corner of the room, so dark and sad.
Have I betrayed my beloved Christmas? Should I have nursed that dry old fir through Twelfth Night?
No, it was time. I’m the one who feels betrayed—by the calendar.
With every last pine needle vacuumed (ha! I’ll be finding them for weeks), I went straight to my Milk and Cookies cookbook and started frantically pulling out butter and eggs and chocolate. These cookies weren’t for a party or a church function or a gift—they were for me. Oh, and my family.
Two days ago I was singing along to “The Cherry Tree” carol and fixing and making and baking for a tea for my young nieces and nephews. We’d given them teacups, rescued from antique markets, each one with a glittery invitation (made by my twins) tied with red yarn onto the handle.
Drink out of me
At a Christmas Tea… etc.
One of my favorite Christmas moments was watching two-year-old Kitty tremble with excitement as she unwrapped her big girl cup. She beamed as she held up the Depression glass, struggling to get her tiny hands around it. Her older sister, Evelyn, now five, was much more adept with her treasure. Evie was that toddling age a few minutes ago. Why does time feel like an enemy?
How can all the reveling be over? What’s left are a few vases of holly and a hallway full of boxes waiting to be put in the attic. And a lot of memories, I suppose.
I can’t think about those today. It still hurts, the Band-Aid ripping.
I need another cookie, or three.
A sudden sob erupts from way back in the van.
“Virginia, did you hit Maddie?”
“Maddie, are you sick?”
“Lily, did you kick Maddie?”
Maddie, through hiccups, stammers, “You said you were going to pack up Christmas and then the fun will be all over and there won’t be any more fun.”