The thick mass of tangled branches lie against the temporary orange plastic fence, quite like the trees we keep as ornamemnts in our homes for a few days near the end of the year. A famillar smell hit me as I parked my bike awkwardly in line with the vehicles that would carry home full trees. for their dressing, lighting, unwrapping, and timely disposal next to the plastic can once the festivities were over.
My cowboy boots squished in the mud as I slowly approached an attendant who was inclosed in a small box. The windows were open, but the heat fans were audible over her conversation with a paying customer. She turned to me quickly, asking what I needed before even making eye contact. I fumbled with my words as I slowly asked if there were any branches I could take, but she cut me off as I mentally noted my nervousness. "Take all the branches you need" her mouth moved as she forced her thumb in the direction of the trimmings. I wanted to inquire if she was too stressed by the season, but hesitated, and quickly thanked her as I moved towards the pile.
A bundle of branches repeditivly hit my back tire, loosly tied to a backpack my roomate has been letting me use. The zIppers have lost their pulls, and the cord used to secure loose loads has formed lumps. Stains splatter the bottom of the white pack, and I consider what a treat it is to have such a kind person in my life. He bought the backpack in 2005, like most of his other possessions after Katrina took all he had.
Pine needles began to litter the carpet as I tore branches apart, tying them in a clumpy circle. I only had an old shoelace to secure it together, and I laughed when I imagined what an awkward shape this wreath would form without a base. I found myself closing my eyes, recalling a previous Christmas- lying under the tree, looking up through the branches at an array of different lights.
On Christmas Eve, I disassembled the wreath. Plastic ornaments clinked together on their way back to the ziplock they were purchased from Goodwill in. As I sat down to respond to a text, my face met my hands with sobs. The wreath, still wrapped in beads thrown at me by a drunk girl in the french quarter, hung above me on the corner of the door frame. The scent of pine had died with the drying brambles, but It still felt like a little piece of home to me.
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