A full month after Christmas, my tree is still up. It sits on the window seat in my kitchen, fading, dropping needles. It's like the backpack that sits out long after you've returned from a trip, getting in the way and getting moved from couch to floor back to couch again, and it would be the simplest thing to put it away but for some reason it never gets done. Then one day, inexplicitly, you pick it up like it's nothing and throw it up on the shelf in the closet and it's gone. That's when you realize the weight the backpack had on your mind, because now it's not the backpack that's gone, but the weight.
When someone remarked about it the other day, the fact that my Christmas tree is still up at this point in the year, I said, "Yeah? So?" The tree will come down when something inside me tells me to do it, and not until then.
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