Tis the Season

 

"We 

should 

get a tree

put up a tree."

"A tree? Why?" "Tis  

the season....almost 

the season.""Oh, that 

kind of tree, where we go 

into the woods, probably illegally

 because we don't own any woods, cut 

down a tree, a living tree that we have killed, 

a tree that will never grow another half inch, never 

have a bird nesting in its welcoming branches, never 

know the feel of a scampering squirrel ascending its heights, 

never . . . ""Point made. We'll get an artificial one instead.""Artificial! 

You mean a plastic tree. Do you have any idea how plastic is already 

suffocating our oceans, and you want a plastic tree!""Okay. Point made.

 So, let's 

just draw

 a tree.

 

Get a

 long roll of

 paper, compostable

paper," J says in a slightly (only slightly) 

louder voice, but still enthusiastic and hopeful.

 "We can tape ornaments, recycled ornaments, make 

paper chains to encircle it, create our own tradition, a tradition 

that will make our children proud.""But we don't have children," L says."

I know. That was just a figure of speech. I should have said, "Make those who 

come after us proud." J takes a breath, then a second breath, waiting, anticipating, 

L's response...scorn? speculation? relief? at the absence of children and L. is still quiet, 

which 

is unusual 

after one of 

J's statements. 

L 

stands 

there, smiling,

saying nothing as if J 

has made an obvious error, as if 

L knows something J doesn't, standing 

there with her hands on her waist, cradling 

her stomach, which J notices, might have a slight 

protrusion. L is waiting patiently now, unusually quiet, 

not holding up her end of the conversation, but smiling and

 her hands still holding  her stomach...or should he say uterus? J

 blushes, even stutters, "Are we . . . are you. . .? L nods."I vote for the 

paper tree, 

to, as you

 said, to make 

them proud."