“This will be our last Christmas in
the house,” my wife remarked, stating the fact without emotion.
The words settled into my consciousness
with the dull thud of a boulder dropped into wet river silt.
“You know that, don't you?”
“I guess. I hadn't really thought
about it. Not that way.”
My wife gave me something between a
“you should have known” and a “are you kidding me” look.
“I'm taking down all the fall
decorations today.”
She left me at the table with my
breakfast, but the cinnamon-sprinkled latte, toasted croissant, and
aged Gouda cheese were no longer as reassuring as they had been.
Big changes were coming. It was a new
beginning, our first as a childless couple. We had been married 14
years ago with three children each. We had blended a family and
raised all six. Earlier this year, the youngest had graduated college
and gotten a job.
Six bedrooms, four baths, 1885
Victorian for sale.
The house was too big for just two. And
my wife struggled with the stairs again since her knee operation had
failed. We had already talked of moving ever
since the last child had left. But I hadn't been ready. I had rebuilt
this house when we got married. I still loved the authentic
character, sunlight filtered through the wavy-glass windows, fir
floors that remembered every footstep, and the bright echos of sounds reflected by lathe
and plaster walls. I would never own another home so spectacularly
vibrant with the sense of Victorian romanticism.
“We'll give the kids our ornaments
this year,” my wife declared, walking through the kitchen, eying my
untouched repast. “When shall we get the tree?”
She left before I could answer. It was
a rhetorical question, one to prepare me.
My last Christmas tree ordeal. My last
struggle to bring an enormous, 12-foot tree through the double front
doors, bending the trunk at a 90-degree turn to slide through the
single door into the parlor. I did it by myself last year, my wife
smart enough to disappear so that she didn't have to hear my swearing
and cursing as tree versus father played out for yet another year.
This would be my last tree...
STOP! Sentimentality will not serve me.
I stared at my croissant, took a drink
of coffee, then ate my breakfast. It tasted different, better, as if
it were my last meal.
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