Mulch

Fridays are my days off with the Hubby, and today we spent a good majority of our time taking down our Christmas ornaments.  The day after Christmas always seems so anticlimactic, so we generally leave up as much holiday cheer as we can for as long as possible, at least until right before it stops being attributed to a desire to extend the good will of the season and changes to just being too damn lazy to clean up after ourselves.


We actually stopped faithfully watering the Tree a few days ago, so the branches were brittle, and the poor tree had drooped into some semblance of the Wicked Witch of the West melting into oblivion.  Because of the thing's dehydration, it was somewhat like finding a needle in a haystack trying to locate all of the ornaments that had once adorned our mighty balsam.  The Tree had obviously begun to curl its branches in on itself in the hopes of holding the ornaments for ransom in exchange for the resurgence of its water supply.  I, however, am stealthy and quick, with catlike reflexes, and was able to retrieve our decorations and see them safely back into their boxes, there to hibernate for another year until the holiday frivolities should begin again.  The Tree resisted in a final hurrah as Hubby attempted to haul it down to the curb where it will be picked up and unceremoniously recycled into mulch (no wonder it was putting up such a fight now that I think about it).  The aforementioned hurrah consisted of the dry limbs shooting out needles like a porcupine does quills as they reached out in vain, trying to catch hold of the walls of our narrow stairwell all the while soaking my poor husband in sticky sap.


After the battle was over, I looked around at the aftermath the struggle had left behind.  The dead needles littering the floor, and every other flat surface in our apartment.  The small pinpricks of blood on my hands and bare feet, remnants of my ornament recovery work.  The host of Christmas boxes, packed and ready to be put away.  And I wondered what the scene will look like next year.  Will it be here?  In this apartment?  Will it still be the just two of us (and our oft disgruntled beagle)?  How will our lives be different?  Who knows?  I can only hope that I embrace any change that may occur with a little more grace than a dried-up Balsam, going on to the next chapter kicking and screaming.  Of course, who knows how I might act in the face of the proverbial wood-chipper?  Only time will tell.