Healing Tree
by Gregory Meece
Snow blanketed Rachel’s car, except for the porthole she’d uncovered on the driver’s side. She’d forgotten her gloves, and her fingers went numb before she could clear more.
The douglas fir jutted awkwardly from her SUV’s open hatch. After a lonely Christmas Eve, she was determined to return it to the tree farm.
“Ma’am, you can’t return a live tree,” the man said. He wore a plaid wool coat and one of those hats with retractable ear flaps. All that’s missing is a thermos of cocoa and a coonhound named Ol’ Red, Rachel thought.
“It’s not live anymore,” she said, her voice cracking. “You sell dead trees. And look—it hasn’t even been decorated.”
“I prefer cut trees,” he said. “Besides, Christmas is about over. Who would I re-sell it to?”
“I guess you have a point.”
“After today, this stand’s coming down—permanently. Cut trees are out—like newspapers and DVDs. People want fake ones: no needles, no watering, no sap. Pop ‘em like umbrellas, plug ‘em in, and feel the glow.”
“I still like real ones. The piney scent makes it feel like Christmas.”
“So why do you want to give this one back?”
Rachel blinked back tears. “Refund would’ve covered the roast...”
“Something wrong?”
“This is the crummiest Christmas ever.”
Nodding toward a pile of evergreens lying in the snow, he said, “Turning unsold stock into yule mulch isn’t exactly my most wonderful time of the year either. What’s wrong?”
“Everything’s wrong. Do you have kids?”
“Never married.”
“Mine couldn’t be bothered to visit. First Christmas since Bob left. We always decorated the night before.” She swallowed hard. “I’ll save the presents for the grandkids’ birthdays. Maybe they won’t notice the Santa wrapping paper in July. They still believe—like in the TV Christmas specials.”
“Me too. Well, in some things. Hey, you doing anything?”
“Liquor stores open on Christmas?”
He smiled faintly. “I’ve got hot chocolate inside.”
Rachel smiled. Knew it.
“How about we take your tree inside and decorate it?”
Rachel touched the resin-sticky trunk. “You were right,” she said as she peeled her fingers apart.
“Did you know that sap helps evergreens heal their wounds?”
For the first time all season, she felt something other than empty, and whispered, “Then maybe it can help me, too.”
He offered his arm.
She didn’t hesitate. “What was it Linus said in the cartoon? It’s not such a bad little tree.”
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Gregory Meece is a retired educator and short fiction author residing in Chester County, Pennsylvania. He holds degrees in English, communication, and education. Gregory's stories have appeared in thirty different anthologies, literary journals, and magazines. Visit his website at MeeceTales.com.