Inlay

Without its glittery ornaments the small pine tree looked sad, its now-sparse branches drooping under the last string of fairy lights. I can take it from here, I said, stroking the yellowing needles. The mantel clock chimed the half hour; nearly midnight. Nearly time. Outside, snow fell on the silent night, streetlamps bathing gold across the white. The rectangular glow of a front door as it opened across the road. I gently unwound the tangle of wires and tiny bulbs, only losing a few more needles in the process. The moment the last strand came free the tree breathed out, a brief puff of resiny mist. The clock chimed the three-quarter hour. Movement out in the street as several of my neighbours carefully shuffled their own trees down to the kerb. Mine wept, oozing fragrant tears as I pulled the nails and the boards from the base of its trunk. It quivered as I smoothed off the rough bark around the base. Hefting it over my shoulder, I carried it down the front path. Together we stood, waiting and watching. A whistle, which meant a minute to midnight. Wordlessly, we all stepped into the road and lined up our trees. Bedecked artificial versions stared back mutely from behind frosted windows. See you next year, I whispered against the drifting snow, and my tree shook a branch—already lusher and almost glossy in the lamplight—to drop a single green needle into my hand. On the stroke of midnight, limping on its weeping stump, it joined the silent procession of pines, spruces and firs moving through the snow-bright night, heading home. --- Athena Law is an award-winning short fiction author & poet. She lives on a hill in the idyllic Sunshine Coast hinterland in Queensland, Australia, where she collects pencils and has all her best ideas at midnight. www.athenalawauthor.com.au