We have three trees this year: two miniature specimens decorated with homemade ornaments in the family room and one beribboned, baubled beauty commanding the living room. Only one of the mini trees is real, releasing its faint evergreen perfume from its position near the sliding glass doors, where the heating vent dries it out in real time. The cats have decided we erected these small trees for their amusement—Jack has toppled the LED-lit version twice, sending my favorite kindergarten ornaments skittering under the couch. Both felines drink from the pine-scented bowl of water at the base of our one live tree, dodging needles and dangling ornaments with theatrical precision, intent on provoking whoever settles on the couch.
My parents made Christmas magical when we were growing up, carrying on a tradition from my father's Swiss-German family with devoted precision. They stashed a live tree in the garage or a neighbor's backyard until Christmas Eve, when they hustled us to bed early, gated us onto the top floor of the house, and spent the entire night transforming our living room. By dawn on Christmas Day, every bauble and twinkle light would be positioned with exacting care. The presents, too, appeared in gift-wrapped splendor—no lazy bags or visible tape allowed. My father would "check to see if Santa had come" before releasing us to stampede down the stairs toward our Christmas miracle. Of course, he needed those extra minutes to ensure every twinkle was in place, the stockings hung just so, the presents artfully strewn across the living room carpet.
My father wondered aloud if any of us would carry on his tradition, and none of us could commit to that Christmas Eve marathon. I believe my brother John attempted it once or twice, but I'm too fond of sleep to go that route. I felt waves of guilt about taking the easier path when our kids were small, and now I harbor only mild remorse that we have just one miniature real tree, only a faint whisper of pine in the house, far fewer needles embedded in the carpet.
Dad passed away almost six years ago exactly. I had to calculate the years because it feels both impossibly distant and startlingly recent, time collapsing and expanding in that peculiar way grief has of distorting our perception. I'm crying as I type because we miss him with an ache that hasn't diminished, and he's everywhere at the holidays—present in the lit trees and old-fashioned Christmas carols that drift through our rooms. He wouldn't appreciate the unwrapped Amazon boxes stacked under our tree or the cheating I do with the pre-lit artificial tree, but he wouldn't have said anything. He would have smiled that particular smile of his and done his best to make the holiday special for all of us, accepting our imperfect efforts with the same grace he showed everything.
I know he's here—just as he illuminates the Christmas tree-lit rooms of my mom and my siblings, a presence we all feel when the lights glow warm against December darkness. Merry Christmas, Dad. We're doing our best, even if the trees go up earlier and the magic requires less midnight labor. You taught us what matters wasn't the perfection of the presentation but the love woven through every careful choice, every twinkling light. We carry that forward, imperfectly but with full hearts.
