The Christmas Tree

Third Place, teens' essays

Sara Hartse |

12/18/2008 - 12/19/08

The sky is an opaque mass of whitish, gray clouds — a color foreshadowing snow, but somehow reminiscent of goose feathers and fleece. The sky seems to cover the world like a quilt, sealing itself off at the top of the mountains.

Every year in December my family and I pick a Christmas tree. This in itself is a sacred act. The tree must be perfect in height, shape, and in Christmas-ornament-hanging capacity. It must be at least as good as last year's tree, though it never seems to be.

Once our tree is home, in a flurry of tangy pine and scratchy branches, we raise it in our living room. This means we have to go through the tedious process of getting it to stand up straight.

Once this trying but necessary procedure is completed comes the best part of all — hanging the ornaments. They have been hibernating in the garage in ancient cardboard boxes. Now they come out into the light, just in time for the holiday season.

Each ornament is wrapped up in last year's newspaper, sometimes individually, sometimes in family groups — the icicles are together, as are the golden spheres. The newspapers themselves create an amazing time capsule; I can read last year's news and wonder at how much in the world has changed.

Unwrapping each ornament is like recalling a memory. Every ornament is a surprise, but also like seeing the face of an old friend; the instant I see it, I remember when I created it and how difficult it was to paint a poinsettia when I was seven.

As the different ornaments are unearthed, they are placed on different parts of the tree. This elaborate ceremony is quite specific: every ornament has its history and its special place on the evergreen bows. The frog has to be on a thick branch because he might fall (he has already lost a leg). You must be careful with the ceramic snowflakes because they are delicate. The polar bear is too heavy to even go on the tree, so he lives on the mantelpiece.

As the afternoon progresses, the mounds of crumpled newspaper grow. A warm glow descends on the room as my dad manages to illuminate the string of chile lights. The reflections on the window pane spiral around the room as I twist and untwist the rubbery chile caps on each light so they create a consistent pattern of green and red.

The tradition of trimming the tree — more than anything else — reminds me of Christmas. The tree is beautiful, shining, and serene. When I get home after dark, the tree is there, filling up its space with holiday cheer. All I have to do is plug in the lights, and my house is filled up with warmth and magic.

The white clouds are thicker than ever; they look like they're here to stay. I'm inside, safe from the dropping temperature. And then, as if by some great miracle, it begins to snow. The dry, cold land of Santa Fe in December allows the swirling snow to stick. The large flakes alight on the trees, shining like glitter.