I Sit in the Tree and Wait

I've been sat in your tree all week. I've been before. I went away last time. This Christmas I need to stay I think. 

You're so busy too. It's confusing. You're so incredibly alive. I expect with Christmas on the way you would be. The birth of Jesus. A God no less. Wow. Maybe that's it. Hanging on like a shining star in spite of what the medics say 

Yep, so active. I can see you in the loft through the dormer. It's that big box of Christmas decorations you lugged up there last year. Oh dear! Time to get it down again. Up and down the creaky ladder. A cycle of gracious work. An eternal determined toil. A bit like mine really. 

What about the tree? Ah yes, you buy a real one don't you. I remember. I would too. It's that resinous piney smell. Hypnotic. The very essence of the season. An ancient perfume wafting back in time, an echo of the wild wood when your world was younger and so was I.

It's dark now and I see the kids arrive from school. They throw their satchels on the settee. Jumping, cheering, laughing like you all do when your overjoyed. It must be their last day at school. Schools out! Oh! what a day. You all cuddle and you you can't let go.

Hot chocolate and ginger biscuits now and some music. It's getting better already. The full fathom of family life, it's glorious infectious reach. I for one am hooked.

Sometimes ghosts stop by but not today. They're travellers who knew the place or the people. Curious and mesmerized, I'm glad they can't see me. They're still linked to life a little and that's not my business. Life. That's the other lot, the creators, our industrious mirrors, the flip.

You pop outside for the metal tree-stand in the shed and brush off those pesky cobwebs. Your breath testifies in the cold. 

"Help me decorate the tree soon kids! Dads on his way home with one from the farm".

I would too, really, decorate the tree, if I could, but that's your job I'm afraid. Once given life to create a world; to guide the disparate bright lights together and make a happy whole. And what a great job you've done. One that'll last I think. I hope.

Dad's home. I see him drag the fir from the car and take it over the threshold like a bride. The marriage of myth and a modern family. A really pleasant moment and I'm glad to be here.

Trees up, garlands are on, more mythical beings conjured: the fairy lights, the angel on top, the primeval forest spirit dressed in red, sons of Gods. All old. But not as old as me, nor as certain. They may fade but I won't.

The worst bit is having to touch you. It's mandatory. It's how it works. For all of us everywhere. It's the same. Touching you is crucial to make things happen. I know, I know, it's a bit gross but that's the rules. Wars are the worst. Plagues too. They're messy and sad. So many at once. 

For me though, families like yours are even worse, especially the sudden dispatch where there's love in the home. I sense the grief, the loss, the outpouring of pain like a rip in time. It's dreadful to be honest, but once I'm sent in it's irrefutable. All the love in the cosmos couldn't stop it.

I personally try to avoid too many seeing it happen. We're all different. Have our own house style. I really try to keep it away from the kids if I can. Usually it's a sorrowful act that spreads in intensity round the living and kids don't understand. How can they. For the chosen themselves, when it finally comes, the decision, when I touch them, it's quick, a fast full stop, a date stamp.

I see you coming out of the house for a cigarette. You stand right in front of me, in front of the tree where I'm sat. My legs are swinging just above your head. I could touch you now and get it done here in the garden with nobody around except you and me. We have some leeway though, a few minutes, and when necessary, sometimes hours either side, so doctors can work or those you love can gather or farewells whispered and mouthed and tender promises vowed.  But I don't want you out here alone in the cold. It's not the cigarettes either. You've other problems that can't be solved. Your husband knows but not the children, which is a shame, it will be such a shock to them, but even if they never comprehend, I understand.

I see your husband in the kitchen making tea. The kids are upstairs. This is it. The moment. I get down from the tree and follow you in. You both hug in the mellow light and wish each other a merry Christmas.

You smile.

It's time. I have to I'm afraid. 

I reach out and touch your hand, whisper 'don't be afraid' in your ear, watch you fall, bow my head and quickly leave.