I. Childhood (1950s)
The arrival of the tree
was almost as exciting
as Christmas Day itself.
The long wait
trips to the front door
interspersed with hopeful gazes
at the prepared bucket
on shiny linoleum.
The agonising wait
broken by the flurry
of heavy footsteps
and the thrusting
of a trunk into dirt.
A pungent prickly pine
that made me sneeze
stolen from the river bank
had found a new home
for the last days
of its life.
We watched
as older sisters
dressed it in decorations
we’d made
from silver foil bottle-tops
and cardboard ~
and those exquisite paper lanterns
my mother found on sale years earlier.
Christmas wrapping
covered the bucket
twisted red and green streamers
danced
from lightshade to walls.
The tree
and the wood-panelled room
smiled with colour.
I smiled too:
it was just two days
until Santa’s visit
when we would leave
Christmas cake and drink
to send him on his way.
We’d wake
and ‘look, but not touch’
until Mass and breakfast were over
then presents would be handed
one by one and we’d watch
each treasure unwrapped.
Home-made second-hand
sometimes bargain-purchased
gifts
left in Santa’s name
filled our home with joy.
II. Marriage (1970s)
In the fourth year of my marriage
when our second-born was not yet two
silver leaves on spiked branches
reached out in cold glare
I perched the ‘tree’
on metal tripod ~
soon replaced
by a bucket of dirt
for stability
and in an attempt
to hold on to childhood.
I added balls and bells
and colourful tinsel
overseen by a gold angel
with glittering skirt
flowing almost to the floor
then sprinkled flashing lights
for effect
and in an attempt
to let go of my childhood.
Grand and sparkling
loaded with presents
for twelve years to come
this Christmas tree echoed
an artificial life:
A façade of all that is good
on the outside
empty devoid of warmth
and crying out for recognition
on the inside.
III. New Beginnings (1990s)
The cypress pine
in an earth-filled pot
grows taller
each year.
When too big
to retrieve from its verandah home
for the Festive Season
I’ll find a niche
in the garden
return it to nature.
The purchase of a new
potted evergreen
for future Christmases
will complete the cycle
a sound philosophy
until
at age six the tree
is wilting gasping
from days left without water
and being knocked sideways
by gusty winds
to lie flat on cement
a reflection of myself
tired and reeling
from traumatic events
piled one on another
and another…
sapping energy
despite steady periods
in between.
It’s time
to cut the dead wood
plant the roots
in nourishing soil
and
feed and water tendrils
spreading in earth.
It’s time
to expel toxins
allow expansion
and growth
nurture myself and
take control of my life
to pot
a new cypress and
tend it with care.
c. Kathryn Coughran ~ 1994
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