Tonight we purchased an eight foot tall Frazier fir from a tent in a large home goods parking lot.

It arrived today by semi, culled from a tree farm somewhere on the border of Virginia and North Carolina.

Wrapped in twine, we cut it free to examine it, shaking it loose to let the branches fall down, away from its cocoon like wrapping.

We turned it this way and that, and found it to be acceptable. After cutting off a few low limbs and the sapped over stump, we had it netted, and brought it home.

It stands in my living room, a dark presence in the center of the bay windows.

The smell of it permeates everything. It feels colder, fresher, and more peaceful in here.

I like the dark tree.

It’s already sacrificed its life for the Christmas season. There is something in the purity of unadorned branches that draws me to it.

It draws up warm water from the stand, no longer growing in neat rows up north.

Now it silently resides here, with me. Alone.

I’ll vacuum up the tiny needles that fall in the weeks to come as it slowly fades away. I’ll smile and remember the first time I place an ornament my child made decades ago on its branches. I’ll lie under in the twinkling lights for hours in weeks to come, longing for Christmas past, and looking to Christmas future.

For now, though, I embrace it in my solitude. We are both alone. Bare. Silent.

As real as we can be, uprooted, transplanted, and repurposed.