The Best Gifts
It was that time again. Thanksgiving was done and over, and the last tinges of the stress of the holiday were passing away for a short lull before the storm of Christmastime stress hit full force. All those who had traveled were back in their homes, and those whom they had visited had finally finished cleaning up the remains of their houses.
However short-lived, it was a time to relax, and for that you adored it. You had no problems with the holidays themselves, but all of the hustle and bustle irked you to no end. This was the only part of the holiday season you truly enjoyed, and that was solely because it was as close to normal as things could get during that time.
In your mind, this was the time when Mom should go out and buy Christmas presents, but every year without fail she would wait until the last possible moment, often Christmas Eve, to go out and purchase presents for the family. The only exception was when a particular gift was on sale the day after Thanksgiving. If that were the case, she would be ready and out the door by two in the morning to retrieve it. She often said she actually enjoyed the immense crowds and ridiculously long lines. How she did, you would never understand.
The vibrations of the garage door opening rudely yanked you back to reality. Mom and Dad were back from buying a Christmas tree; it was the only thing Mom would even think of buying this early. For a moment, you considered heading downstairs to see what type of tree they had chosen to buy, but you decided against it, knowing that if you did you would be forced to help carry it into the house. You opted to stay in your room and see the tree later tonight, after it had been decorated.
Unfortunately, your plan failed, and Dad was soon at the base of the stairs calling for you to come down and help decorate the tree. At first, you pretended you didn’t hear him—you would say you couldn’t hear over your music if he asked—and hoped he would leave, but he remained and called you again, more loudly this time. Giving in, you got up and made your way downstairs to the living room.
Before the tree even entered your field of vision, you became aware that it was not artificial, as you had hoped. You loathed the piney scent of a real tree and sticky feeling it left after arranging the branches to Mom’s liking. Plus, you were always the one that had to keep it watered, which meant crawling under the tree and getting your back covered in needles that never wanted to come out again. This was another one of those things that was Mom’s doing; she loved real trees. You turned towards her with a disapproving look.
“Why did you have to get one of those trees?â€
