It was a tradition every Christmas:
My father and I would hunt for a tree
with the nicest shape, the freshest needles.
We would do this in a clear night or rain,
and more than once, plodded through the new snow,
bringing our prize home to the family.

This fir, focal point for the family,
center of the universe of Christmas,
decked with colored lights, sprayed with fake canned snow,
dressed with shiny glass colored balls, this tree
was our holiday beacon. Ice or rain
might reign outside, even sleet in needles,

but we were safe at home. Yet like needles
browning on the evergreen, our family
soon began to dry up. Not even rain
could slake this thirst for a perfect Christmas.
Lights began to dim, winked out on the tree,
glass balls lost their luster. Outside, the snow

piled with fierce resolve. In the house, a snow
of abuse accumulated, needles
of words stung all who were in range. The tree
sat, a mute bystander, as family
squabbles grew to fights, tearing Christmas
open, like unloved presents in the rain.

Each year the mood was more like freezing rain,
iced over. We drifted as powdered snow
from each other. Father left by Christmas.
My sisters turned to bottles and needles
to dull the hurt. This once perfect family
was lopped off, cut down, a sacrificed tree.

They say the acorn drops close to the tree.
My acorn was washed downstream in the rain.
And now I am raising my own family.
My sons and I look for trees in the snow.
I try to keep them all from the needles
of pain, keep the love intact through Christmas.

Now, as I drag the dead tree through the snow,
behind me the rain-like trail of needles
recalls those family trials of Christmas.

10/02/2001

Posted on 10/02/2001
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt