He responds with a lifted hand and without turning around.
I brave a look at Jay; there’s a stupid smile on his face.
“We missed you today,” he says, stroking his mustache. “But this might have been better.” I snort a humiliated laugh. “Leftovers are on the plate—Marv made puffin he ordered from Iceland.” His eyes widen to emphasize that. “And there’s something in the box to go with the tree.”
“Thank you for this,” I say, trying to suppress the emotion that’s currently pressing against bone in my chest. “And the tree.”
He hesitates—kiss me—but simply smiles and strolls down the sidewalk. I stand watching until the box truck barrels out of sight. Disappointed and bursting all at once.
Inside, I open the box. It’s filled with ornaments. Partridge ornaments.
My face splits with a smile. Jay the lawyer-turned-brewery-owner who lives in the woods in a camper might be good. Really,reallygood.
I run upstairs and grab my phone, and for the first time ever, I dial Jay’s number.
“That didn’t take long,” he answers, and I hear his smile.
“I want to go out with you. To dinner.” The words tumble out of my mouth like falling dominoes. “Then to your place. To one of those chairs sitting outside of your place.”
Silence. My heart pounds.
“Jay?”
“I knew you were thinking about that kiss,” he says, smug.
“Fine,” I admit.
“In today’s clothing of choice?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Somehow: “Yes.”
“My chair will be waiting for you next Saturday.”
I pantomime a scream.
“Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes, amused.
I’m still smiling at my phone after he’s ended the call.
Then.
Alone, dressed in lingerie and giddy as a schoolgirl, I hang every single partridge on a pear tree along with a simple strand of white lights.
When my kids come home at the end of the weekend, they declare it the best tree we’ve ever had.
I agree.
The Beauty of the Pear Tree
By: Hollis Hartwell
I have always believed in times of emotional duress, the only goal should be to wallow in that pain, replaying the sad movie of my life over and over and over. And. Over.
Hollis,I would say,there’s no space for happy when so much is wrong. And worse, should I feel the slightest tinge of joy in the midst of these hard times, guilt, that Grinch, would rear its ugly head.How can you smile when you need to be sad? Do you even care?When my heart breaks like hearts break, I proudly patch myself up with a Band-Aid made from mesh and let myself bleed out, purposefully stalling in my agony. Yet another tradition to put on my list.
And now: holidays. Is there anything which underscores all that we’ve lost—or never had to begin with—more than constant cheer? Any better reason to throw a blowout pity party than the time of year dubbed merry and bright?
