When we make it inside, the barn is much the same as I remember it from last time, which was years ago. The large, open space is mostly hay storage with a small booth where you pay for your tree. But some upgrades have taken place. A stall selling cider and hot chocolate sits to the left of the entrance. And the ceiling is lit up with more strings of fairy lights, setting the old barn in an ambient glow. The hay-littered floor of the barn crunches underfoot as we make our way through the groups of people chatting, dragging trees, and enjoying steaming beverages.
The place is just so . . . happy.
“Here for a tree?” a young girl says, holding out a tag on a string. “This is to claim your tree. Caleb will cut it down and help you load it, if he’s not too busy.” She doesn’t stick around for an answer, turning to greet the next group of people through the door.
I slide the card and string into my pocket as we move further inside the barn.
“Hank!” A man calls from across the barn. He closes in on us fast, and I scramble to remember his name. Mr. Henderson who runs the hardware store? I’m pretty sure. It’s been almost ten years, but I remember stealing mouse traps from his shelves once on a dare.
Hopefully, he doesn’t remember.
“Howard, nice to see you,” Dad says.
And I smile, not just because it’s polite, but because my dad is having a rare lucid moment. I treasure every one we get, knowing how fleeting they are.
“Great to see you out and about. We’ve missed you of late.”
Confusion washes over my father’s face, but he corrects it, mostly. “How’s the wife? Still baking those Christmas cookies this time of year?”
Mr. Henderson’s face falls as fast as my father’s moment of clarity fades.
Mrs. Henderson died the year before I left home.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the man who is standing stunned, his mouth moving but producing no sound. “We should get a tree before all the good ones are gone.”
I offer him an empathetic smile.
He simply nods. “Of course. Shout if you need a hand loading it into your truck.”
“Thank you.” I slide my arm through my father’s, and we walk through the barn and out into the field of Christmas trees. Rows and rows of snow-dusted pines stand like dutiful soldiers. It’s incredible.
Some tower over us, others barely reach my shoulders.
How on earth will we ever choose?
A few folks stop to say hello, mostly welcoming me back home for the holidays. My father wanders through the trees as I try to get away from a girl who was in my grade in elementary school. I feel bad that I can’t remember her name. I watch as he stops by a medium-sized pine. It’s got excellent foliage coverage and an almost perfect shape where it stands.
“Excuse me.” I force a smile to the woman saying hello, not really bothering to see if she returns it, as I stride through the symmetrical forest and to my father’s side. “Find a good one?”
“This one’s a beauty, Tish. This is it.”
I take in his lit-up face before casting my gaze to the tree. It surely is.
“Well, this one it is!”
He beams at me. I slip the card from my pocket and bend down to tie it around the tree’s base. Murmuring comes from the tree. Okay...
Either I’ve lost my mind, or?—
A hand slips around the trunk of the tree, rope wrapping around the bark.
What?
No, no way. This is our tree.
I spring up and round the tree. A large half a man is sticking out the bottom of the tree.
No, out from under the tree . . .
