I have been driving around for a week with a disassembled Christmas tree in my car. Underneath it are pots and pans, a cake-tester, some tins of nails, a quilted tablecloth and a matching runner I made years ago, along with what else I don’t know ’cause I can’t see underneat the branches.
The tree is mine being returned from my sister that she needed for an exceptionally early Christmas last year. Just like always, my Dad’s house is a dropoff point. It’s been that way for years. We’re used to walking in the house and looking for the bags with our names on it and leaving behind bags with someone else’s. With my sister buying the house, the tradition looks like it will remain in place.
Some things sadly change; some things happily don’t.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology