I used to live in a Christmas tree

Madeline Almaroad

I used to live in a Christmas tree. I used to be a smaller version of a much larger man. He was the man of the house, and I was made in his image. The sweet lady with the blonde hair and the man bought me when they were still young. I was one of the first ornaments on their small Christmas tree in the apartment that they lived in during medical school. The apartment was small and cramped, but appropriate for two twenty-something med students. The first time they put me on the tree the man wrapped his arms around the blonde lady as they both basked in the warm glow of their very first Christmas together as a family. By the time they pulled me out of the ornament box to decorate the tree again there was a new small, squishy baby to celebrate Christmas with. When winter came around, they decorated the tree again, and I felt proud to be a part of the baby’s first ever Christmas. She and I were, in fact, just smaller versions of the same man.

Before long they moved into a house that was so grand it could be a castle. In the castle they had a Christmas tree that was almost two stories tall. It sat in the basement and the top of it reached just over the railing on the ground floor. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The man was an anesthesiologist, so that must’ve been what I was supposed to be. Sometimes he would come home dressed in the same thing I wore, pale blue scrubs and a stethoscope. Except his stethoscope was real and mine wasn’t. He would sometimes pace the living room in his scrubs, nothing cute or cuddly about him. Sometimes he would remind her that he finished medical school, and she dropped out. Being an anesthesiologist must have been a very important job, because he would yell at the blonde lady about how much money he made and how that made him the man of the house. I would watch them from my place high up on the Christmas tree, the warm glow of twinkling lights lighting up the living room. His voice was a loud constant that rang through the house.

For a long time I went back and forth between sitting in a box in the basement and sitting up in the tree for one month out of the year. But eventually I started spending less time in the box. The couple had three children by the time they moved into the castle. They would always look for me first when putting up the Christmas decorations because they liked how small and cute I was. They liked to keep me in their playroom with all their other toys and stroke my soft white fur. So, I went from sitting in a box with all my other Christmas ornament friends to sitting on a shelf in the playroom with the real toys. But even though I had a new home in the playroom, the kids would always make sure to put me on the tree with my friends when Christmas came around. Eventually– a good deal of time after the kids took me out of the Christmas box– the warm months came around and the kids started staying home. But something was different this time.

The air in the house felt as heavy and suffocating as the humid air outside, and there was a strange silence that settled over the house during the day. It blanketed over every inch of the house like the feeling of mourning. The silence of the daytime felt so breakable. The nighttime is when things got loud. I could hear it from up in the children’s rooms, the sounds of screaming and sobbing were so intense it sounded like someone was dying. Sometimes the kids would stay in their beds alone, sometimes they would huddle together in one of their rooms like they were trying to weather a storm. This was a time of great pain for the children. Christmas was so far away.

The oldest child would be out of the house most of the day during those warm months. She would put on her headphones and leave the house to bike around the neighborhood for hours at a time. I’d never seen her leave the house that much before. The middle boy would cry a lot and scream just as loud as his father, asking why they couldn’t just get along again. The oldest spent many nights trying to calm him down while the fight raged on downstairs. And the youngest girl, who was only nine, would become very quiet. During that summer she was always either sleeping or crying silently.

After the man of the house started sleeping in the basement, he would sometimes go into the oldest child’s room late at night. I would watch from the bookshelf as he broke down, telling the oldest that he was sleeping on the couch. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t know what to do anymore. She would rub her tiny hand in circles on the man’s back as he cried. Sometimes after he left the oldest would cry, but sometimes she would just stare blankly at the wall with a hollowed-out expression, arms wrapped around her middle like she had a tummy ache.

I don’t know what happened on the night the men came to the house. I heard screaming, which was normal to hear at night during that period, but this time it didn’t stop. I could see red and blue lights flashing through the window, and then the house was filled with unfamiliar voices and the stomp of heavy boots. It sounded like there were knights storming the castle. Early the next morning the family had gathered in the living room. The sweet blonde lady had a mark over one of her eyes that was the same size and shade as a black plum. There was a silence so heavy it felt like anything above a whisper would shatter all glasses and windows. Even the man of the house, whose voice had echoed through every corner of the house, didn’t speak louder than a murmur.     

Soon the suffocating humidity started to fade, and the children started leaving the house for school again. One day the man of the house walked out and never came back. And I stayed with my family. I followed them to a new house. They put up a new Christmas tree. The children grew into taller, somewhat misshapen, individuals. The sweet blonde lady became messier and louder, but now there was also this new light in her eyes that I had never seen before. She stopped talking to the man of the house, and eventually after a few years of going to visit him the oldest child did too. The oldest child didn’t grow into a pair of blue scrubs like her father, instead she grew into a recklessly happy and messy woman, just like her mom.

Sometimes I can see a hint of sadness in the oldest child’s eyes when she strokes my fur, but even though she hasn’t spoken to the man in many years, she makes sure to always keep me on her shelf along with all her other knickknacks– my new friends. I’m glad that I can hold the good parts of him for the children. I’m glad they can look at me and be reminded of the gentle joy of Christmas, instead of being reminded of the man who hurt them.

I used to live in a Christmas tree. I used to live in a castle. I used to the toy version of a much bigger man. And now I don’t know what I am. I was supposed to be like him, but I don’t think that matters anymore. Especially now that he’s gone and I’m still here.

I used to be an ornament, pretty and soft and only pulled out a few times a year. I used to be a smaller version of the man of the house. I used to symbolize the livelihood that paid for their castle, and how hard he worked to get there. But now I’m something else entirely. I don’t know what exactly, but it doesn’t really matter what I am anymore as long as I have my family that loves me and who I love in return.