Christmas Tree

If you’ve ever read a book with pages and pages of afterword, then you’ll know that abrupt feeling of the end creeping up on you. It was already Christmas Eve, and stacks of my pupils’ formatives were the only new decorations in my wife and I’s studio flat since her birthday in July. I could’ve sworn I’d just turned the page on August, and yet the pennies of interest piled in our joint account suggested a couple more months had marched forward towards the big move sometime in the future. So instead of tinsel and baubles, paper tassels were strung from the bedroom door; miniature bunting was tacked to the corners of the living area (strategically placed so that the landlord wouldn’t notice if it chipped the paint when we removed them). The only semblance of Saint Nick was contained in a glittery pine cone that Alli had found on her way back from work. She was working then—on Christmas Eve—but her bar was closing early, and she would be ready to leave by eight. I planned to pick her up and walk her home, setting my alarm for seven-twenty to give me plenty of time to get there.

I left the flat with my keys hooked onto my belt buckle and jingled down the stairs like a jolly Santa entering a house with a fireplace on the second floor. The lift was often broken, and even when it wasn’t, it was slower than the stairs. Alli and I had tested this on many occasions, as she preferred the lift regardless. We tried to work out ways to slow me down, with longer routes or added tasks; it never worked. Out in the courtyard, the kebab shops’ back doors remained open most of the evening for all the grease steam to vent and for staff to filter in and out for smoke breaks. The other side was a street of clubs, though they hadn’t been open since all the students left for Christmas.

I had felt a few spatters of rain as I crossed the courtyard, and a more consistent shower greeted me as I exited through the main doors and out onto the street. My coat had one of those linings that felt like it would be waterproof but was mostly just windproof. I flipped the hood up over my head and strode out onto the empty pavement. Despite the lack of people, smoke still clung to the air from bar vents and car exhausts, so I kept my head down and did my best to dodge smeared seagull shit and wonky bricks in the paving. As I placed an earphone in, a festive playlist that Alli and I had made began to play, and Coldplay’s Christmas Lights serenaded my way to the retail park signs for Aldi, B&M, and The Range. Then the music stopped briefly, and I checked my phone. 

“I’ll be fifteen minutes late,” Allie’s message read. 

I replied with a kiss, knowing she’d be rushing, and took a detour into The Range. Walking through the automatic double doors, I was startled by an orphanage of neglected fir trees, lined up longingly for the unprepared and impulsive. Some sprouted from red ceramic, with tags hung neatly from a branch, while others were left in their plastic pots on the concrete.

‘Care for a tree?’ A member of staff had approached me during my brief pause.

I almost chuckled reading her name, Mary, from the tag on her orange vest, but kept my composure as I asked, ‘How much?’ 

It was only right that we had a tree on Christmas, seeing as we had no other place to put each other’s presents. I had hidden mine under the bed, folded up with an air mattress we used for when friends stayed around.

‘They’re all five pounds.’ Mary smiled encouragingly, and I struggled to hide my delight.

‘Even the ones with the pots?’ I asked, gesturing to several of the trees.

‘Of course. You can choose a tree, and we can change the pots around.’ 

I felt guilty now. Not only was Mary so generously assisting me on the purchase of a five-pound tree, but I was also faced with the conundrum of uprooting one tree while providing a home for another.

‘This one is an especially nice Nordmann Fir, and it still has its roots intact.’ Mary ran her fingers through the pines, and I could smell its odour like a new car’s.

‘I’ll take it.’ I didn’t want to waste any more of Mary’s time, and I trusted her opinion above my overwhelming desire to choose the one that looked the most feeble and unloved. I picked up the tree and began to take it to the counter before Mary stopped me.

‘I can charge you at the till, and you can pick it up on the way out,’ she said.

I paid and left with the tree in my arms, before questioning what struggle it might be to walk home. Rushing through the downpour, I made it to Allie’s bar for eight-fifteen and stood under the outdoor awning for her to finish. Beside the empty kegs left out of the cover, I couldn’t avoid the smell of rusty tin and musty hops uplifted by the rain knocking on their exterior. 

‘Is that yours?’ Daisy—one of the bar staff—quick-stepped out of the front door with her phone in hand. 

‘It is. Alli doesn’t know. It’s a surprise,’ I told her.

‘That’s brilliant,’ she said. ‘How are you getting it back?’

‘Lifting it, I suppose. I hadn’t really thought about it.’

‘I can ask my taxi driver if that’s something they’d allow?’

‘Would you? Thanks.’

We waited beneath the awning, watching the cars whiz through the streams forming on the tarmac. When the taxi turned up, Daisy ran out with her leather jacket pulled over her head and leaned into the passenger seat. Daisy pointed towards me, and the driver unwound his window and poked his head out for a moment. Daisy looked back over at me and shook her head before waving goodbye and climbing into the car.

‘What have you done?’ Alli stood in the doorway with the bar keys.

‘Surprise?’ I held out my palms and tried to smile as encouragingly as Mary had to convince me.

‘If you’re asking whether I’m surprised, then I have to say I’m not. This has you all over it.’ Allie locked the doors and closed the shutters. ‘And that’s why I love you.’ She walked over to me and kissed my wet cheeks.

‘I don’t know how we’re supposed to get it home.’ I confessed.

‘I have my bike. We can place her on the seat and each hold a side and a handle.’

‘You’re a genius!’ I gave Alli a big hug, and she placed her head in the nape of my neck. I always ran warm, even in the winter. We wheeled the bike over the road, and Alli stepped out preemptively. ‘Both ways, remember,’ I scolded her.

‘That’s your side; what else are you here for?’ She winked at me, and I grinned back, watching the rain drench her fringe flat against her forehead.

We continued through the rain, past the retail park and across the empty streets that seemed less far less now that Alli was there. She told me about her day, and I listened intently to every customer’s name and each drop of beer poured into a glass. Alli’s voice was the smoothest tap, and I was grateful to drink from her words. I could be challenged by the toughest day, but it would run through the drains like rainwater when I came home to her.

A year later still brings me back to that Christmas Eve; Alli's gentle kiss pressing the rain into my skin; her eyes glazed with love and disdain at the inconvenience of a late fir; overlooking how she called the tree ‘her’. I barely recall the following day, or the look on her face as she opened her presents, or the sensation in my hands as I held the test and read positive in its lines. I don’t remember holding her belly and feeling for movement, though it was too early for there to be any, nor can I recollect the flavour of gravy-drizzled nut roast or hazelnut hot chocolate with mini marshmallows all squishy and melty. The last thing I recall is finishing the last dribble of wine from the bottle and Alli insisting she’d go get another. I didn’t need it. I had drunk enough. I could’ve gone. I could’ve gone with her. It was my side. What else was I there for?

I place my cigarette butts in the soil where our tree lays to rest, in the same red pot we bought her in, and though her withered figure still stands, it does so only as a reminder of what’s left. The glittered pine cone still hangs from a single branch, and sometimes, when the light hits it in a certain way, it reflects a little wink, just like the one she used to give me. I’m not sure anyone really knew me before her, and now that she doesn’t, I fear nobody will. Therefore, here is where I exist: in the afterword that lasts too long and nobody ever reads. Because you’ve seen the end. And the rest? It isn’t worth reading.

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Another tragedy I'm afraid. Christmas Tree is a piece of flash fiction derived from the story of a gentleman I interviewed last year. Although I don't believe that fiction must be based in any sense of reality, it was refreshing to tell someone else's story, despite the delicate interplays of love and loss. On reflection, I found that my writing process for this prose tore emotion from me, rather than me contributing willingly. I believe this is due to the pressure of retelling somebody else's story, knowing that they must exist past my words.

In a broader sense, the story explores themes of personal transformation, the passage of time, and the ways we try to hold onto what we fear losing. The Christmas tree, the rain, and the seemingly insignificant details of the protagonist’s day-to-day life all contribute to the feeling of a world continuing on despite the emotional and personal void that remains. It's a poignant reminder that we are often tethered to the past, even when it’s painful, because it's the only way we know how to be.

Next week's post will take a slightly lighter turn with a more lyric-oriented form...

(See you next year!)