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I have come to grips with the fact that I may be an alien.
Let me explain.
It’s late January, and I’m driving in my car. All over the city there are former Christmas trees laying flat, stuck in snow on the curbs. Stray pieces of tinsel shine within their stiff and brown boughs. The trees appear to weep. I consider their meager “lives.” At first they are grown and coddled. As they age, they are looked after with complete dedication. “What a beauty this one will be!” One foot, two feet, four feet, eight feet. Suddenly, the coddling stops and the nightmare begins. The big, noisy machine cuts them off at the knee. They are thrown in the back of a truck and practically smothered among their brethren. They feel the life draining from them. They are roped and set upon their cross. People come by and jeer, “Too skinny!” or “Too many holes!” The trees are mocked openly: “Mom, look at this one--fat, then skinny, then fat again, ha, ha, ha!” Finally, they are selected like puppies in a pet shop window. Now, there’s respect. The trees are individuals again. Warm pots of water rejuvenate them in warm quarters; they are adorned with lights, a shiny garland and ornaments. The compliments of their youth return. “What a lovely tree!” The days pass. The water dries up. The happy times give way to being completely ignored. “When are we going to get this dying, hideous thing out of here?” It is stripped, deloused, removed from its pedestal and thrown onto the front yard to wither. I pass another. It looks the same, but I think this one was shot in the back; so young--such a tragedy.