Amber
The day we dismantled our
Christmas tree,
spruce needles fell in
pin-sharp showers.
Our fingers hesitated to
pluck discomfort
from the minefields of
socks and slippers.
We could not free strings
of lights
from layers of fragrant
branches;
we took to breaking twigs
until the amputations
became more brutal.
We wanted a quick end
to pack away our victim,
send it off for municipal
composting,
bring closure to winter
rituals.
The prickly remains
resisted plastic.
peevishly protruded in
jagged protests.
My son grabbed an unruly
branch,
pushed it back into the
bag.
"Ohhh!" he exclaimed
regretfully.
"What's wrong?" His
observation snapped me back into mothering
"This has sap in it."
"Look at it; it's running
down the branch."
"And so?" My mind was
blank.
"It could have become
amber," he answered.
In the silence of the
setting sun,
the brown ooze glistened.
We stood before it thrown
into eons of
probabilities.
"But you wouldn't be here
to see it,"
I offered by way of
consolation.
Quietly he said, "It
doesn't matter;
it's too bad anyway."
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