we don't have far to go

we don't bargain

with the man

for the tree. we're too tired

for that.

we stand it up straight, banging

the trunk down

on the snowy

pavement of the church

parking lot.

there's a fire going

in a barrel

where an old man holds

his hands

over the flames.

six feet is seventy-five,

the young man says.

it's a good tree,

just cut.

feel the needles, still cold

and stiff,

the life still in them.

i look at the wife, she shrugs.

nice, she says.

okay. we'll take it, i tell him.

the man cuts off a few feet

of twine from a large

wooden spool on the ground

and ties the tree

to the roof of our car.

we don't have far

to go, i tell the man,

as my wife looks far away

wiping tears

off her reddened cheeks.

i hand him the money,

and he says Merry Christmas.

yes, I tell him.

you too.