For the past few Christmas seasons, my parents have decorated two separate trees, one in our family room, with our childhood hand-made ornaments, and one in our living room. This year, they waited to decorate the glass bulb, or the breakable, tree until my brother and I returned home for the celebration and could join them. I had been lax about setting up and decorating my own artificial tree in my apartment, a product of a hectic schedule and a general sensation of wanting to avoid another chore; the artificial tree finally went, but it was still a welcome surprise to decorate a real fir with my family. Although it has been standing in the living room for a few weeks now, the tree still exudes a delightfully potent evergreen smell, a smell at once exotic and familiar, ancient yet always new and clean.
Many of the glass ornaments my parents own have been with them since they were married; each year, with age, they grow a bit more personality. We used to have a number of large beautiful globes from our ancestor's home, Poland, hand-blown and painted; while one or two remain, unfortunately, the fickle branches of Christmas trees and the artful, anxious movements of child fingers have sent the others to another, fragmented, life.
I have had a difficult time getting into the proverbial Christmas spirit this season, between my schedule, the vacillating weather, a general exhausted and frustrated disposition; purchasing gifts online, though convenient, has not at all helped matters. Drinking a stiff egg nog and gathering around a freshly decorated tree is exactly what I needed; alas, it also meant that I finally had to wrap all of those presents. When it comes to folding wrapping paper, it seems the excited and unskilled maneuvers of small, slow hands return.
This ornament is mine, and I exclusively am permitted to place it lovingly upon a branch, prominently displayed. The figurine is not at all unlike how a certain someone used to look, chubby and round and in a fluffy pink snowsuit.