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Two months ago, I laid my husband, Harold, to rest. We had been married for sixty years—longer than many people are fortunate enough to live. He was my morning coffee, my evening news, my steady hand when sidewalks were slick with ice. When he passed, the house didn’t just feel empty. It felt hollow, as though the walls themselves were grieving. Every sound echoed differently after that.
That was why the little Christmas tree in my yard meant so much to me.
Harold and I had planted it decades ago, when it was barely more than a fragile evergreen sapling. Every December since, he would string the lights while I handed him ornaments from an old red box we kept in the closet. There were glass bells, tiny wooden angels, and a ceramic snowman our granddaughter had made when she was little. This year, for the first time, I decorated that tree alone.
