I could blame it all on Hammacher Schlemmer. That day when I drove home from work, an evening so cold the windshield fluid which wasn’t swept off the glass crystallized; like a fast-forward film, the crystals sent out branches which grew and spread to snowflake beauty in an instant. That day when the sugary-yeasty smell from the Bake’n Joy Foods factory near our apartment permeated my closed car windows. It signaled Christmas was soon, soon, the ovens fired up all day to complete last-minute holiday orders. Surprise, said my husband, opening the hallway door to an upside-down Christmas tree, the tip inserted into a metal stand on the floor. He moved toward the glowing, alien decoration and gestured, as at an unveiling, saying, I saw this online and had to have it. I fought the urge to bend over and view it in the way I was familiar with. The archetypal triangle, which should sit heavy on its base. I said, But there’s no star, pointing to heaven. His face drooped. This is how our marriage went until that day—he was impulse, I was control; he dreamt, I walked solid ground. You know, he said, hands in his pockets to hide his vulnerability, they used to do it this way, hang the trees upside down to represent the trinity, in the Middle Ages. It’s just . . . a different way. How do you know? I asked. The catalog said so, he replied, coming back to me and gently unwrapping my scarf in a slow spiral. I became conscious of the weight of my clothes, of having a stubborn hold on something unnamed. After taking a deep breath I whispered, on an exhale, It’s perfect.

More Fiction