November 24, 2018

sprig

Soon after our local grocer gets its first shipment of fresh Fraser firs in from a nearby tree farm in the mountains, I find myself stopping in on a quick errand and, upon leaving the store, I look on the ground in front of the trees until my eyes land on the perfect small sprig that has fallen off a branch.  I bend over and pick it up, and sniff it for potency, and carry it away with me.

I have done this for eleven years.

There's always the moment when the conversation plays out with the imaginary irate store employee, the projection of my own conscience, who states that the bit of branch doesn't belong to me, that it's technically store property and I don't have a right to take it, and I have to argue that they couldn't sell it and my taking it doesn't hurt anyone.  It's a silly, repetitious thing, but every bit part of the tradition.  I steal it anyway.

I put the bag of groceries in the back and climb into the front seat of the car, and pass the sprig of Christmas fir to P.J., so she can inhale deeply with it placed just under her nose.  She gives it back and I do the same.  We pass it back and forth like a crack pipe.  Then I leave it in a cup holder, and for the next week it transforms the car into a pocket of evergreen bliss.

Thus our holiday season quietly begins.

1 comment:

  1. You've just given me a piece of quiet joy. Thank you. Hugs

    ReplyDelete