Memories of Christmas in New England are from my childhood, when my younger sister and I went with our dad to choose a tree. We'd walk along a row of pine, fir, and spruce trees leaning against a pole until he saw one where its size matched the height of the living room ceiling, plus his pocketbook. Pulling it upright, he'd check the length of the branches and if they made graduated end tips down to the base. By the time my fingers were cold and curled inside my mittens, our dad had handed over the five dollars and was tying the family's fir tree to the roof of the car.
Twenty-six years later, on Christmas morning, our twelve-year-old daughter was excited by her first pair of skis, as our curious five-year-old daughter explored the rooms in the large doll house, with its hand-carved wooden floor boards, that her dad had built. There were the years of roast turkey on a platter at Christmas, shared on our dining room table—then the years of change crept forward, until our family was separated. Our daughters took in these years... and in time put their own imprint on lasting marriages that have given me three grandsons and a granddaughter. As I learn of what their generation is doing, I am inspired... I share in their Christmases as my daughters' photos of their families—and their trees—arrive in WhatsApp.
I now live in an apartment complex for seniors that faces a boulevard where traffic is moderate. Across is the three-story former school building under redesign. On my first Christmas here, I set off with a small knife to clip two branches of bunched red berries on a bush I had noticed in front of the now-vacant building. Returning on the bush-lined walk to my apartment steps, I cut three stems of slender, pointed green leaves from a tall bush growing nearby and climbed up the eight steps. Finding a single unneeded white shoelace, I wrapped and tied the bright and cheerful berried branches and strung them on the bare screen door.
My realization is, "Choosing certain moments to remember at Christmas time can bypass a second or two of wistfulness that may appear, bringing instead the quiet and simple contentment that can be found in aging when doing what is possible."