It seems almost ridiculous now, buying a tree just to put it in your living room. Those things that are rooted to the ground are supposed to stay that way, surely.
Each year the tree in Rockefeller Center still seems too large to be real (much like the city itself), but there it stands regardless, and when I make a quick stop to 49th street and 5th to pick something up after work I can see all the people standing and looking up in awe, and I can’t help but turn my head as I pass too, letting its light reflect back on me.
Every street corner in Manhattan is adorned with tree stands, tall and green leaning against buildings, and as I walk by and breathe in deep the scent of pine I note that the uprooted trees have taken up a new and foreign home on the pavement of New York, (much like the people who pay far too much for them).
What must it be like to grow so much and for such a short time (too short, really) only to be cut down in the prime of life? (We all have our purposes in life, I suppose). And it means so much every year to pass the apartment windows of Manhattan and see the lights emanating from within. What would 49th street in December be without them? Each tree (little or big) serves its duty (and means different things to different people) until in the new year the streets are filled with the fond and dying memories of a job well done.
So we chop them down and put them up in our living rooms because the world and us in it are getting older every day, and all that we ever really want for Christmas, all that we ever really need, are roots of our own.
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