The year following my grandfather’s death, my grandmother took our Christmas
tree from the curb my father had placed it on and dragged it
onto the spot where no grass had ever grown in our front yard. She paid
the neighbor ten dollars to turn the soil mix in water fold the ground like dense
cake batter pick out the lumps of stone. She had our tree planted
not really knowing if it could hold the weight of our Christmas cut straight and bare
across the bottom needles dropping without roots but the tree held its posture
and she could pluck the stubborn silver tinsel wound around its branches.