I call it my Charlie Brown tree, a frail collection of sticks
that poke up in the corner of the yard, too skimpy to accumulate more than a
few leaves even in the heat of summer, and yet, at this time of year, first to
spout.
I dare not attach a Christmas ornament, for fear it will
break a limb, not an old tree – having popped out at some point after our
arrival here, yet not as sprite as spring chicken either, somehow managing to
exist, reflecting my lack of impact on the wider world, just there, just
surviving, just making its bit of green when the seasons change, knowledgeable enough
to know what it is supposed to do, even later when the fall comes and it lets
its leaves turn, a miniature version of the trees that soar high above in the
neighboring yards, me and my tiny tree, somehow managing to carry on as we are
expected, giving now too much, just enough.
