Janice was rooting through the haphazard stack of boxes in the spare room closet-- looking for the small Christmas tree Charlie bought the last Christmas he was alive. They had agreed not to have a tree-- the mess and all. But three days before Christmas Charlie came home from his chemo treatment with a two foot decorated tree.
Charlie died before the next Christmas. The tree had been in storage ever since. It was time to bring it out. Charlie would like that.
The phone rang.
“Carolyn here. How would you like to go tree hunting with us?”
“Who’s us?”
“Mazie and me.”
“Mazie told me they weren’t going to put up a tree this year. Clyde might not even be home from his hospital stay.”
“But he might. And it’s likely his last Christmas. He needs a tree.”
“Who’s us?”
“Mazie and me.”
“Mazie told me they weren’t going to put up a tree this year. Clyde might not even be home from his hospital stay.”
“But he might. And it’s likely his last Christmas. He needs a tree.”
That pitiful little tree somewhere in the closet brought home by Charlie his last Christmas---
“When are we going? Janice asked.
“How about this afternoon. Say one.”
“I’m in.”
“When are we going? Janice asked.
“How about this afternoon. Say one.”
“I’m in.”
Janice found her little tree.
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