The Fraser Fir takes up half the room. Branches hang over the love seat, smacking me in the face if I move in the wrong direction.
"How are we supposed to get to the table, Mama?" The children ask me.
"Just squeeze right in between the couch and the love seat there." I tell them, wondering how my fat ass will fit through.
"This tree is obscene," my friend comments the first time she sees it. "Has Bill lost his mind?"
"Has he ever had it?" I reply, gazing at the monster. "18 HUNDRED lights, if you count the swag on the window."
"Dear God," she says.
My husband tells me about a little boy, in a worn out blue jacket and patched jeans, gazing at trees: Fraser, Eastern Red Cedar, Leland Cypress, Douglas Fir. He can't decide.
He walks to and fro between them, hand running along each one, feeling the sharp poke of the needles against his palm. He wants the BIGGEST one, the one that will reach the ceiling and fill up the empty corners of his home.
"Can we have this one Mama? Please!! This one!!" He asks, tugging at her jacket with small hands and pointing to the biggest one on the lot.
"Not this time, Billy." She knows the small packet of bills in her purse must last for 23 more days.
23 more days to have no space to move in the living room.
552 hours for the neighbors to wonder what the hell we were thinking.
33120 minutes to heal a grown man's heart.