The Christmas Tree Cemetery.
A story of getting older.
I was home from elementary school, wearing an itchy sweater I didn’t like, drawing stars on the fogged up window in between sneezes and coughs, when my mom told me there were some errands she needed to run and I couldn’t be left home alone. Outside, the snow was beginning to melt, and patches of green emerged from under the heavy snow. Blades of grass reached upward, fighting for the heat of the sun, and I knew the holidays were over.
I first saw it lying on its side, in the back of our truck. Our Christmas tree, stripped of its lights and ornaments. I felt a shock wave go through my body as I realized this had been the fate of every Christmas tree prior. I hesitantly hopped in the backseat, my eyes never leaving the frozen, decaying heap of pine needles that was once a beacon of magic and everything good.
The truck pulled into a park I recognized, but never went to, it being too far to bike there. My mom drove to the very back of the park, right where the mowed grass ended and the woods began. Stacked in the largest pile I had ever seen were countless dead Christmas trees.
My fingertips wiped at the foggy window, making a clear section that I could see out of, as my mom got out of the truck, sloshing through the melted snow, and made her way around to the back. The tree hit…
