[15] "O[CD] Christmas Tree"

O[CD] Christmas Tree

by Deidre Price

If I were single and in New York by now,

I would have pulled out my Christmas tree snow globe already,

called decorating done and kept my space to myself.

If I were a twenty-something product of the Gap,

I would have found the hottest color and bought new ornaments to match it,

taken a picture and put it online for strangers to see.

If I had more money than imagination,

I would have window-shopped until I saw the perfect tree, then bought it,

star to skirt, and hired someone to recreate the magic in my den.

If I lived on 30A,

my living room tree would be the tallest, my dining room tree, comparable,

and my foyer tree totally green with recycled ornaments.

If I lived where Christmas trees grew,

I would walk outside, point, and tell my mountain man husband,

“Just flock it.”

If I were a responsible grown up,

I would buy a real tree.

I can’t be trusted with a real tree,

and I’m none of these things.

My tree,

because it’s me,

is fake—durable and fake.

It’s nine and a half feet of overcompensating for its insecurity of being fake.

It’s a mish mash of time.

From handmade to handmedown,

from Hallmark to all jacked up,

I see pears, birds, and angels from my mother.

Disney princesses and ballerinas remind me a girl lives here.

Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader make peace on our tree.

The bottom two feet of plush are for a tiny toddler.

Elementary faces adorn some branches,

fingerprints on glass balls find others.

Trains, Coca-cola polar bears, and gingerbread ladies form alliances.

Snoopy sits beside Ronald McDonald and Eeyore.

We won some ornaments in a divorce that wasn’t our own.

And sparkles, God, the sparkles on the snow men and flakes.

And this is how our tree will always be,

so full of love and family.