My Pink Tree

“There were no trees that would fit in our house,” he said, not sounding really all that disappointed. “I guess we’ll just go with the pink one.”

We had taken advantage of a post holiday sale a few years ago to get the Christmas tree of my dreams: pink, sparkly, and seventy percent off. Never again would we have to wrestle with the light strings or count the days until we could haul the dried-up fire hazard to the curb for pickup day.

Or so we thought.

Ethan’s reaction to the inaugural season of the pink Christmas tree wasn’t what we had hoped for. It had been many years since anyone but me had taken any part in lighting or decorating our family’s tree, so I was surprised that he had even noticed the sweet vision before him.

“I hate it.”

“That’s not a Christmas tree.”

“There’s no Christmas tree smell.”

“It doesn’t even feel like Christmas.”

Well. So much for seventy percent off.

The following year, the complaints began when I asked for help setting up the pink Christmas tree. No helpers had come forward with the regular Christmas trees of years past. How could I have thought any would manifest for the pink tree?

“You can’t put up that tree again. It’s not going to seem like Christmas.”

After a bit of thought, I came up with a plan that I knew he would never go for.

“If you promise to put all the lights and decorations on the tree this year, we can get a real tree,” I offered as I planned my walk to the attic to pull down the pink tree.

But he agreed. He said he would do it. And he did. Multicolored lights shone behind glass balls, tiny trains, and Christmas elves following an afternoon of toil. Ethan’s tree looked beautiful, and it smelled like Christmas.

The seasons passed quickly this year. I had dressed the hives for winter ahead of a series of medical procedures that restricted me from lifting, carrying, pushing or pulling. Those precautions left me out of Christmas preparations; someone else would need to bring the boxes down, including the one holding the precious pink tree.

“We’re not putting that up again. No way,” came the chorus when I asked for help.

Another brother who had just burst forth to announce that he had done a backflip in the hallway at school (and had not gotten in trouble) stood in support of the big guy, insisting that he would go along and help with a real tree. Even the little guy was against the pink tree.

I would have to go once again without my pink tree, but I wouldn’t have been very useful this year anyway.

It took a while to find time in his schedule to make it to the tree stand. When he did, he came home empty handed. Dan and Moses managed to bring the pink tree down from the attic and add enough ornaments to represent each of us while I was at my final procedure—just in time to herald the holidays.

Maybe I do miss the Christmas tree smell. Maybe I do miss this second round of boys being small. Maybe I am pretty grateful for how much they have grown, and for how blessed we are to have them, even if they don’t really appreciate my pink tree.

“Feel the sky blanket you with gems and rhinestones. See the path cut by the moon for you to walk on.”

—lyrics from Unthought Known, Pearl Jam