My favourite Christmas tree is at the Southeast corner of Rochford and Kent. It’s one of a series decorating the downtown streets, each with lights and red bows. I walk by it on my way to work these December mornings, and I never fail to give it an appreciative and grateful look. Its lights are still glowing, the sun isn’t up yet, there is something friendly about its lights, its plump conical beauty.
I started to wonder why it is this tree that I love above the others that I pass. Perhaps in part it’s the lights—they are the old fashioned kind—a warm yellow glow through large transparent bulbs, giving a heartening shine to those perfect glossy evergreen needles.
The next two trees I passed this morning, on the Northeast and Southeast corners of Grafton and Rochford, look battered, and their lights throw off a cooler brightness, modern energy-efficient lights no doubt. The branches appear spindly and the trees lean slightly— they are exhausted mothers kept up night after night by an unhappy child—they need a good sleep, unharried by wind.
The tree at the corner of Rochford and Kent glows serenity, it is the mother tree of comfort, the sleek exuberant shine on the needles and its curvaceous form speak of inner knowing, a plump and hopeful wisdom, extravagant and dependable love.