My Christmas tree is still up. There, I've said it. My husband suggested that we take it down last weekend, and I begged off due to busyness, but that was only part of the truth. I always hate to see it go.
Before you picture some withered, pathetic tree with crunchy, brown branches, allow me to assure you that our tree is artificial. I love real trees, but am allergic to them, and so the presence of a real tree in my house for a month (or more) is intolerable.
I also love Christmas, and it wouldn't take more than an armchair psychologist to figure out that keeping my tree up until mid-January is my way of hanging on to the beauty and magic of the season.
This weekend, our tree will come down. Its ornaments will cease to sparkle, its lights extinguish their glow until they re-emerge to greet the next Christmas season early next December. A lot will happen between now and then, none of which I can predict. What I can predict with a fair degree of certainty, however, is that the tree will still be up again this time next year.
Who am I to mess with tradition?
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