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Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
Last New Year’s Day, I took a walk, the first of the year. Snow-covered lawns flanked the snow-covered road, a glaring white landscape that made me squint despite sunglasses. Each step felt heavy and I vowed to make walking my 2024 daily practice.
Rounding the corner, I saw a Christmas tree lying on its side, unadorned and abandoned a full two days before the city’s scheduled pick up.
I stopped to touch its branches, ran my fingers along a bough. It was still supple, not even brittle. It had been well watered and well cared for until this day.
Our tree, by contrast, was already dry as a bone, as we had been away for more than a week on a Christmas excursion to see family and friends.
On the note we left our cat sitter, we had added a request to water the tree, but perhaps with the myriad needs of our 20-year-old feline, she forgot. Indeed, the cat sitter wrote that Pablo had run whenever she arrived, hid under the couch and refused to eat. The size of our other cat, Mimou, confirmed where the extra food had gone. Clearly, trying to catch Pablo had taken priority.
Thus, we returned to two healthy cats but a dehydrated tree. The bowl of the tree stand was empty; I filled the trough, but it didn’t drink. We turned on the lights anyway.
I like to keep our Christmas tree up as long as possible. Growing up, my family always kept the tree up until mid-January. I loved how winter evenings were filled with that warm glow. As soon as the darkness set in, the lights came on. My favourite place to sit was next to the tree, and in years when we had a full house and not enough beds, I happily volunteered to sleep next to it, too.
Winter, with its short days and long, dark nights, feels interminable. The tree’s lights shroud us from this bleakness and give warmth without a fireplace.
I continued on my New Year’s walk and thought about the abandoned tree. Maybe I could put it in a bucket of water and put it up after our tree died? Or I could stick it in the snow and create a temporary forest in the backyard. Ideas abounded. Of course, my husband would roll his eyes. No, we didn’t need another tree.
But the discarded tree, beautiful and still alive, wouldn’t leave my mind. I trudged on, rounding familiar corners. I turned into our driveway resolute: I would go get the tree.
I fished out some old gloves and grabbed a canvas bag to wrap around the stem. I walked up the street and around the corner. It was further than I remembered. I pulled up my hood, worried that someone might recognize me. Then I remembered – I don’t know any of these neighbours anyway.
The tree was still there. I removed my glove and touched the branches once again, combing them with my fingers to see if any needles fell. No.
For a moment I felt sheepish. After all, I was about to take a discarded Christmas tree from one of my neighbour’s homes. The feeling quickly passed. I suddenly couldn’t bear to abandon it. I wrapped the canvas bag around the trunk, turned and started dragging it down the street.
I paused a few houses later. My arm was already tired. This tree was heavy, clearly not parched like our tree. I had to stop more than once. I wrapped the straps of the bag around the base and then pulled it the rest of the way home.
As I passed each house, I hoped no one was looking. But what if they were? I pulled it up our driveway and leaned it against the shed.
My stepchildren gave me a half smile when I returned and announced that I had another tree. I knew that look. I teach eighth graders. That smirk says, “You’re weird.” I’m okay with that.
“I got the tree!” I said to my husband. “It’s all yours!” he replied. But I will need his help. I couldn’t possibly cut the stem and mount it without him.
Two weeks passed. I waited until our first tree was raining needles before I admitted that it was time. I unwound the lights. Pablo was perturbed. He skittered away from the action but watched from a distance. His bed was now full of needles. I carried the old tree outside with one hand and leaned it against the house. As I swept up, Pablo went to the window, propped his paws on the ledge and looked out at the tree. He seemed sad. His bed was exposed, his tree gone.
I then set the scene for Tree 2.0: new water in the base and a freshly vacuumed rug. I asked my husband if he could spare a moment to give a fresh cut to the base of the “new” tree and put it up. He laughed at me but conceded.
Within the hour we had once again brought the outside inside. I placed Pablo’s bed beneath the branches and all felt right with the world.
Jessica Lee lives in Ottawa.