Goodbye Tree

Yesterday evening we took down our Christmas tree.  I wasn’t ready.  I’m STILL not ready.  I go downstairs to the living room and I’m stunned each time by the now yawning cavernous space by the front windows.  I don’t really understand how Christmas went by so quickly this year.  I know I’m getting older and time goes by faster.  I know I’ve now got a baby, and having one of those somehow warps the space-time continuum.  Still, I just don’t understand why my heart is grieving so much over the end of the season this year.

Perhaps it’s that we didn’t get snow until after Christmas.  Now that we have a dusting on the ground and I actually feel like singing carols, taking down the tree just felt downright wrong.  Dragging the tree out to the curb (or at least out the front door… M took it the rest of the way out to the curb over the ice on the walk) felt like dragging my heart through Scroogy sludge.

In any case, I know this sadness is silly.  I have so much to be thankful for, and so much good stuff to look forward to this year.

To channel my gloom into something at least vaguely productive, I give you Goodbye Tree (a la Goodbye Moon).

—————————————————————————————————–

In the great living room
there was great green tree,
and a man with a broom.

There were shiny lights,
and warm winter tights.

There were three hanging socks,
and a large Christmas box.

There were snowmen and angels,
and baubles and bangles.

There were songs and cheer,
and a couple reindeer.

There was a man in a red suit,
and cookies to boot.

Christmas was there, in that room, too,
and all it required was us and you.

—-

Goodbye green tree in the room,
goodbye needle-catching broom.

Goodbye lights,
and goodbye tights.

Goodbye socks,
back to that attic, box!

Goodbye snowmen and angels,
back into your packaging you baubles and bangles.

Goodbye songs,
see you next year, cheer.

And we’ll miss you mightily,
you happy reindeer.

Goodbye Christmas,
you were fast and fleet.

Next year please go more slowly
next year please drag your feet.

I promise to hold you
in my heart all the year,

if you’ll just stay a little longer
the next time you’re here.