I was at home in elementary school, wearing an itchy sweater that I didn't like, drawing stars on the foggy window between sneezes and coughs, when my mom said she had errands to run and I couldn't leave the house alone. Outside, the snow began to melt, and green patches appeared beneath the deep snow. The grass blades reached up, fighting for the warmth of the sun, and I knew the holiday was over.
I first saw it lying next to the back of the truck. Our Christmas tree, stripped of its lights and ornaments. I felt a shockwave pass through my body when I realized this was the fate of all previous Christmas trees. Without hesitation, I jumped into the back seat. My eyes were once a magical cover, and everything never left the frozen and frosted pile of good pine needles.
The truck pulled into a park I recognized but had never been to, too far to ride a bike there. My mom drove right behind the park where the mowed grass ended and the forest began. The largest pile I saw was stacked with countless dead Christmas trees.
I wiped my fingers on the foggy window to create a clear spot where I could see my mom getting out of the truck and moving around in the melted snow. The tree hit…