Dear First Real Christmas Tree...

I've dreamt of meeting you my whole life. I kept hearing from my friends, who had already experienced their first, that there was something magical when the real thing happened to them. They'd bundle up in scarves soft as fur and gloves knitted by their grandmothers. Christmas carols would start softly on their journey to the tree nursery or the tree farm or the tree forest, feeling kind of corny at first, but soon all nature would burst into song as if condoning the sacredness of meeting it. The air freshener. The trinket holder. The ribbon spindle. The shelter for fit and misfit toys.

And of course, there's the feeling when you meet the one. It is electric, I was told. Passion, hope, warmth, and love raging from its branches like Moses' burning bush.

Ah, then chopping it down, trimming the stray twigs, and tying it to the roof of your mom's squealing old minivan over a hot cup of cocoa is the very act of adoption. The tree has become family. Duly christened, it is driven back to your home; and as though you feel guilty for keeping it out in the cold waiting for you so long, you put it in the place of honor in your living room, warm and safe. Then you water it, decorate it with more carols and laughter. Christmas has officially come.

Not so with you, First Real Christmas Tree! I was a fool to trust in the fable of pine and humans sharing spaces. I want a clean floor, you want to wilt. I want right angles, you want to stoop. I want cheery ornaments, you want to drop and break them. I want to deck your branches with lights, you want to deck my arms with scratches. I want harmony and peace on earth, you want to do a face plant in the middle of my floor.

But then, is it I to blame perhaps? You sulked from the day I ripped you from the happy association of fellow trees. No matter how much we accommodated your lack of balance--due most likely to the weight of your emotional duress--you didn't stand straight and tall, but wilted under the artificial lighting. And then, making you embarrassingly front heavy, you lost any self-respect and literally lay down as a plea to be dragged out the back door.

So, should I feel bad for causing you suffering during this season of seasons, month of months, and day of days? After all, isn't it Christmas for one and all?

Well, no. You're just a tree.

Sincerely,

A fan