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Every year since the day we first moved in together, we’ve stuck to the same tradition. Spending the first Saturday of December dedicated to decorating the Christmas tree.
Dressed in our comfiest clothes; matching plaid jogging bottoms and reindeer jumpers and armed with steamy mugs of hot cocoa topped with swirls of whipped cream and chocolate shavings, it was time to tackle the boxes. I’d made some iced gingerbread biscuits yesterday to keep us going, while you collected the haul from the loft.
Half a dozen boxes waited for us, some made from battered cardboard and held together with parcel tape, and the rest of coloured plastic that’d faded with age. Though I could barely read my own terrible handwriting scribbled on the box, over and over each time we’d reused the box.
You’d already set up the tree while I made hot cocoa. Now, a bare fake pine stood in the middle of our lounge waiting to be dressed. The first box we’d opened contained two smaller boxes of fairy lights, shaped like stars because they felt like little wishes, and endless streams of tinsel in sparkling silver and icy blue tones. The next box housed packets of ready-made bows bent slightly out of shape, and the tree topper. A shining silver star with a filigree design, a keepsake gifted to us from my family. Although the glitter was patchy in places, I couldn’t bear the thought of parting with it, it felt too precious to me.
I’d almost forgotten how many decorations we’d accumulated over the years until we tore open the boxes. Colourful kitsch decorations stared back at us, each one acting as a memory snapshot of our lives together, that it’d become customary for us to buy a new one each year.
After the foundation of tinsel had been wrapped around the tree and the fairy lights switched on, we stopped to enjoy our hot cocoa. We sat on the floor, holding hands as we reminisced about another year spent together and what we’d like to achieve next year. You mentioned trying again for that promotion at work, while I expressed my desire to focus more on my creative projects.
Mugs drained, we turned our attention to the overwhelming mass of decorations lying before us. Over the years we’d given away the majority of the baubles, replacing each and every one with a new kitsch decoration. Something that’d started as a joke, yet never really ended.
You took your place beside the tree, and I stayed knelt on the floor, rummaging through the boxes and handing you the decorations one at a time. The first was a popcorn machine, the red enamel still as vivid as when we first bought it because it reminded us of our first date. We’d been friends for years but one day a fairground opened up locally, and you asked me to join you. I’ve still got the ticket stubs hidden in an old journal. From that day forward, I struggled to imagine my life without you.
A tarnished silver key came next, a gift from our parents when we first moved into this house. There was once a ribbon that decorated the key but over time it frayed until it was nothing but a single string. A gingerbread house, topped with glitter icing and peppermint details, that you’d bought as a joke the year we failed to make gingerbread houses at the family gathering. Despite the ill construction, everyone still said how delicious the biscuit was even if the presentation left a lot to be desired.
You hung the first three decorations on the tree, positioning them in prime locations dotted about amongst the plaid bows and odd decorations we’d collected over the years.
I pulled the next kitsch creation from the box, a pang of sadness in my chest. A tabby cat stared back at me, wearing a blue knitted scarf, something we’d bought together after we lost our first pet. His memory lived on in the form of this decoration, and although I felt sad each time I unboxed it, I couldn’t bear to part with it.
A little red car with a fake Christmas tree strapped to the roof came next. I remember when we thought it would be a great idea to buy a real Christmas tree one year. The single attempt alone was enough to put us both off the idea for the rest of our lives. We’d left it till the last minute and ended up buying a tree too big to fit in the car and unable to fit inside the house so it was forced to live outside.
The final decorations were awaiting their turns, a silver champagne bottle to celebrate our marriage four years ago and the ridiculously sized croissant covered in chocolate sauce we bought in Paris where we’d spent a long weekend as a honeymoon. The last decoration was the pair of candy canes tied together with an icy blue ribbon, we’d bought at the Christmas market last year.
When you’d finished adding the final touches, we slumped on the sofa together admiring our Christmas tree. A small fake pine covered into our shared memories. To outsiders it would look gaudy, but to us, it was perfect. Well, almost perfect.
I turned to you and said ‘Somethings missing.’
‘Are you sure?’ You asked.
I produced a small box from my pocket, I don’t quite know how I’d hidden it all day without your notice, and handed it to you. ‘Maybe we can add a new one this year,’ I suggested.
You took the box in your hand, pulling off the ribbon. I waited with baited breath for your reaction, sitting on the edge of my seat with anticipation.
‘Are you?’ You asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, looking in your eyes then back to the decoration together. A simple photo frame designed to look like a postcard. ‘Our family is about to grow.’ I added, getting up and placing the new decoration in the centre of the tree. A black and white ultrasound photo looking back at us, with a little bean in the picture.
You stood beside me and took me in your arms.
‘Our last year together.’ You said.
‘No, our adventure is only just beginning.’
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