“You drove me crazy when you would take the tree down on Christmas Day.”
This from my middle son.
Youngest son is listening to the exchange, his blue eyes are wisely old in his not old body. He doesn’t voice an opinion.
“It was so depressing when you did this when we were little,” continued that sensitive middle one.
“I have promised I will wait this year, a little longer,” I say this outloud but in my head I am wondering how long I will have to. The truth it this: I absolutely love decorating my Christmas tree. I have hundreds of ornaments, homemade and purchased, gifts that span decades, stored in tens of boxes. For ten months of the year, they are wrapped in tissue or placed in boxes with soft padding, layered one upon the other until Silent Bob brings the boxes in just after Thanksgiving. There is hardly a one that doesn’t bring a flood of memories with it.
“It’s all of those homemade ornaments,” says middle son. “Our tree was very different than my friends.”
This makes sense as I remember t