The Christmas branch hung from the rafters
In the years after my mother left;
She was the one who did Christmas best:
With the crescents and the bittersweet
and the orange clove scents and the wildflower wreaths.
He could never fill her shoes;
The Christmas branch, not our only clue.
"It's got two bottoms, " I complained.
"Or two tops," my dad's refrain.
My friends were confused by the Christmas branch,
"Is he just too cheap to buy a tree?"
"No," I said, "He's just artsy."
"It's a protest against the slaughter
of Christmas trees," said his other daughter.
"More room for presents," said my Uncle Ed,
"And easy disposal once it's dead."
We never solved the mystery
Of the Christmas Branch that hung from the rafters
In the years after my mother left;
She was the one who did Christmas best:
With the star fashioned from milkweed pods
And the batter spoon and the potato stamp cards,
The string of lights, monochrome blue
He could never fill her shoes.
The Christmas branch, not our only clue.
It had one bulb, as I recall
And after that broke, none at all.
He took the explanation to his grave
And the credit that I never gave
Just for carrying on,
In the years after my mother'd gone.
And I never had the chance
To tell him I liked
That Christmas branch.
