It was, from the start, the tree that couldn’t stand straight. In part, it had no choice. With a curved trunk, it just saw the world a little differently, that’s all. But even when cut and tamed and taken in by a loving family, the tree persisted in its wayward ways.

It took two straightening sessions, the first before it was strung with lights and the second when it was fully decked out with delicate ornaments—and still, it started leaning again.  The new stand may have been the culprit. Or it may just have been the tree itself.

Whatever the cause, I knew by the time I woke up yesterday that the tree was coming down soon, one way or another. I wanted it to be on our terms, not the tree’s. So yesterday we did the sad duty: removed the ornaments, tucked them away in boxes; then the lights; and finally, the tree itself, drug unceremoniously out the back door where it was examined again carefully for castaway ornaments.

I used to put Sousa marches on the stereo, looking ahead to summer, when we did this. Yesterday, it was the jazz station WPFW that provided the accompaniment. I left the cards up, and the cloth wreath in the kitchen, and the little stars that hang from the light fixture and the stockings on the mantel, the nutcrackers on the piano and the little holiday lamp that I loved from the first minute I saw it at the Vale Crafts Fair almost 20 years ago.

Could it have been that long? Yes, it could. And in part for that reason, I don’t get as sad anymore when the tree comes down. The years pass quickly. Next Christmas is right around the corner.