Goodbye, My Plastic Christmas Tree

It feels like a break-up. It really does.

Every year, with tender emotions in December, our relationship is effortless. I gently place wrapped gifts at her feet, and she, in turn, stands tall and soft, like a goddess I've known my entire life. She is a paradox of intimate familiarity and passionate unfamiliarity. She may have the same unmistakable shape, but the way she dresses, the way she ornaments herself is just for me.

But the inevitable always happens. The saccharine honeymoon period ends in early January, and I prolong the doomed relationship as long as I can. Bitter words are spoken about our love as guests come into my apartment with barbs of "You still have your tree out?" With the magic of Christmas unwrapped, her smile fades. I forget to plug her in, and her lights, darkened and taken for granted, change her from a sparkling princess to a forgotten triangle.

So this year, with visceral, nostalgic pleasures cloistered away, I decided to pack her away with the calendar face still reading 2009. "No need prolonging the inevitable," I told her as I wrapped newspapers around her bust. She cried, and her branches fit chaotically into her newspaper prison. I tried to comfort her, told her "It's not you; it's me," and she loyally let me fold her face behind newspapers and rejection.

And as I slid her back onto the top shelf in the spidery-dark corner of my closet, I knew I'd love her again, in time. For now, her sight has become an annoyance, a reminder of the end of good times.

But next year, I'll reach for her outstretched branches; her plastic fingers, overeager for my touch, hastily prick my hands. But all love is destined when it is new and December; all love is possible in the future.

Silver orbs for bracelets, lines of golden tinsel to necklace her, and a star tiara dull in comparison to my affection. I'll offer her new gifts next Christmas; I'll love her more deeply than I ever have. And until then, I'll imagine the books on my shelf are her plastic, evergreen scent.