The Small Christmas Tree

The snow showed the paths others had taken. From the top of the slight hill, I could see green upon the mound. All was calm, dark, cold. A brisk winter wind kept the snow crackling.
Christmas wreaths, balloons, even a few bunches of fresh flowers next to stones with names on them. A flag, a teddy bear, an envelope in his arms. Perhaps to keep the thought alive. Or, to carry a wish. Who can guess? Yet, the wishes will never be sent back to senders—they will find the star they were meant for, no matter how large the Milky Way.

I walked slowly. Christmas is a special time when one walks in a cemetery. And when a friend has placed a small, artificial Christmas tree upon a grave, the meaning of the moment is immense. Perhaps not as vast as the pain that friend had while buying that tree. Not even as choking as the moment surely was in placing it upon the snow-covered mound of clayish dirt. But the moment is immense for my 12 year old daughter who got her Christmas tree! With decoration. With love from another 12 year old girl placed it in the snow. To say “I miss you”. To say “I wish, I wish I did not have to do this.”

I placed a small wreath next to the tree. A wreath my 12 year old daughter had picked up last Christmas. In the shape of a whirling embrace of garlands, twigs and laces. The kind of wreath a 12 year old girl does not often buy. Unless she was my daughter. Unless she had boot marks in the snow around her grave.

... Christmas is a special time when one walks in a cemetery.

December 16, 2005