Hanging this star is the last ornament to go on the tree. As usual I’ve done the whole thing, mostly, by myself. Hubby is not interested and my son, though claiming to be participating, is more interested in lighting candles and creating a device from which to hang mistletoe over the door. So my ambiance is the faint sound of Christmas music trailing from the bedroom, Hubby trying to figure out how to voice command his video game (“Equip flame spell!”…. “Equip lightning spell!”….”Assign flame spell”…”Assign healing spell!) and the “hammer hammer hammer” of my son’s work.

Still, my mood is not dispelled and I persist in the annual tree trimming with my usual warm and fuzzy feelings. Three broken ornaments still get hung because of their sentimental value: A Christopher Radko of Kermit the Frog in a Santa hat, climbing out of a now-broken chimney; Ceramic ball with tree scene painted on it my father’s widow bought for me at an art show, soon after my father’s death (hole in the back side is hung against the tree… an invisible scar); and a crystal angel with a broken wing my husband gave me our first Christmas together. All the ornaments have some memory associated with them, some more significant than others. They are placed on the tree in order of emotional attachment, but even the least have some meaning.

I’m thinking about a co-worker who decided for the first time this year not to put up the tree. Her kids are grown and her husband doesn’t care any more about their tree than mine does. I wonder if some day I’ll be the same way?….. Nah, I can’t see it happening.

Oh. I missed a box. Hold on …