O, Tannenbaum!

It was usually around midnight when the sobbing started, in the deep quiet when traffic lights seemed to dim and the boom of truck traffic died to a murderous rumble. Kevin hated midnight. Yet, it was better than the daylight when humans wandered the aisles, occasionally spinning one of his brethren hung solemn from the rafters. No one knew the truth on the farm. The myths, the gospel teachings, all praised the noble sacrifice. They celebrated how they would be decorated and feted and honored as demigods. No one at the farm knew the cruel truth of being a Christmas tree.

Baby Fraser firs or balsams were raised to grow straight and tall. They suffered the annual pruning, offering up the pain to their god Christmas. Kevin sighed, back in his corner. As a “9 to 10 foot silver Fraser fir” he lingered, passed over. Kevin had been proud of his girth, his branches thick and heavy, ready for lights and ornaments. However, as he listened to the humans, evidently he was “too fat”. And so he sat, watching the others leave, one by one.

There had been barely suppressed excitement when they were cut, graded, and loaded on the big trucks. It was finally happening! They were going to their destiny! During the dark days in the truck, the trees retold all the scriptures and all the stories again and again. The lesser god Santa, his evil elvish minions, the glories of humans worshipping their fine forms and fragrant boughs, were all trotted out. Their sturdy branches twitched as they imagined being loaded with offerings of lights, glass ornaments, and precious handmade treasures.

Kevin had been surprised when they had been unloaded at the broad building and laid out in rows. The asphalt was cold and hard, but the sun was bright. He’d expected to be carried away by humans singing ancient carols. Instead, he and his brethren had been strung up in what he soon learned was “the greenhouse” in orderly rows by size and type. Kevin shuddered, a smattering of needles tinkling to the concrete floor. Here they remained like tidy rows of dead bodies. Waiting.

The first trees chosen left singing, their needles shining. Poor fools, thought Kevin. The rest soon learned as they listened closely to the humans. Every day the trees learned more and suffered the humiliation of being fondled and judged, then dragged away. Christmas, it seemed, was a holiday, not a god. Trees were basically a big cut flower stuck in water for a few weeks. Sure, they were decorated and lighted. Photos were taken and children counted the presents laid beneath their boughs. But the gifts weren’t for the trees, but for the humans instead. Then it was over and Kevin learned to his horror, the trees were tossed away and chipped up as mulch! There was no endless celebration, no offerings of cookies and milk. The trees were décor.

Kevin did his best to be the cheerleader for the others, at least for the first couple of weeks. However, even he eventually slid into despair as the hundredth human pawed through his branches. He understood the sobbing.

Christmas Eve arrived. The despair started as a low wind stirring their needles. Midnight was close and then they would be discarded. Only a dozen trees were left, including Kevin. As the hour struck, a silent wail became a howl for redemption from their fate. The trees started to sway and spin, trying to free themselves from their chains. It was Christmas Eve, the holiest night and yet they were alone in the dark, abandoned.

Then suddenly, a glowing light appeared in a doorway. A woman approached, directing a team. They cut down each tree and hauled it through the bright glow, loading them onto a truck. Their needles raining down in panic, the trees rattled around in the truck bed, terrified. Soon, the truck stopped, the engine shut off. The trees were unloaded one by one. The woman stood at the tailgate and murmured to each tree their destiny. At last, only Kevin was left.

“Hello, my dear fat one! Aren’t you a beauty! I kept the best spot for you. Owls and hawks will roost in your branches this winter. Could you be their shelter as they heal from their wounds? These noble birds need a place to shelter and feel safe. Your branches are so thick and strong, could you do this? Be their haven?”

Kevin shivered in delight. This was better than being stuck in a house for a few weeks. Here he could see the sky, hear the moon’s silver song again, and feel the dawn air in his boughs. He tried to wave