Christmas is finally over.
The decorations have been unhooked from the tree, wrapped carefully in tissue paper and returned to storage for another year. The pictures on the wall have all lost their faux-pine garlands, each decorated with dried orange slices that once smelled as good as they still look. The collection of snowmen, bears and Santas have been removed from the fireplace and now sleep soundly in boxes waiting for the magic of Christmas to reanimate them once again.
The cards, some proclaiming simply "Best Wishes" while others tell a family story of the previous twelve months, all await recycling (save for the cards my love and I exchanged which will soon join 32 years-worth of previous Christmas wishes preserved in boxes upstairs). The lights, disentangled from the tree, are wound carefully onto reels and, along with the festive gold and red tablecloths, are packed away. The wreath from the front door is taken down to advertise that, in this house, Christmas is no more.
The tree - a mangificent beast, taller than our high-ceilinged room when it arrived and six feet wide at the base - though still green and retaining (nearly) all its needles, has been stripped of its branches ready for taking to the tip. It cuts a forlorn figure, a lanky, naked trunk seemingly waiting to be dressed in the pile of branches that now lays beside it.
Christmas is finally over.
No comments:
Post a Comment