Pine Tree
"Is it perfect?" Marcy said as they stopped along the short path.
It was quiet on the edge of the woods, walking through the tree farm. She loved the sound of snow crunching under her feet. The three inches that had fallen three days ago was crusty underfoot. The sun was trying its best to melt winter's dressing. Marcy could feel the glowing warmth on her face, despite the cold temperatures.
"Better than perfect," Robert replied.
This would be their first Christmas as husband and wife. They had come out to tag the tree. It would later be cut down and Robert would pick it up with his Ford F-150 next weekend.
"Will the star fit on top? It is my Grandmother's star. It has to fit on the top."
"It will," Robert assured her.
She wrapped her arm around the crook of his elbow. "If I listen," she said. "I can almost hear the sap running through the bark."
"You're thinking of Maple Trees."
"Nope. I am thinking of Pine Trees. That sticky feeling on your fingers when you touch the trunk of a live tree."
"Okay, you win."
They started making their way back along the trail. Up ahead a deer bolted across the path and scampered off between trees.
"A deer," Robert said.
"Was it beautiful?"
"A female, full grown, a majestic stride. The light brown of its coat against the snow was striking."
"This is going to be the best Christmas," Marcy said, grabbing her husband's arm tighter. "I believe I just felt a snowflake on my cheek."
"We're supposed to have flurries today."
"A fresh dusting on top of what we already have. It makes Christmas all the more beautiful."
They reached the car. Roger played a gentleman and opened Marcy's door. He closed it once she was in, then went around the front of the sedan and got in behind the wheel.
"But if we didn't have snow," she said, continuing her comment made as they neared the car. "If we didn't have lights or a tree, Christmas would still be beautiful. A love promised came to earth. That is true beauty."
"It is," Roger agreed.
"Beauty like that, the snow, the lights, the tree, they are things of sight, of decoration. None of them are of the heart. The heart feels what is truly beautiful. The cry of a baby, the moo of a cow, the shuffling feet of shepherds, or the distant song of the angels. That beauty can easily be felt. It doesn't have to be seen."
The drive from the tree farm was brief. Roger turned the sedan into the driveway. Snow was picking up. The flurry forecast by the weathermen looked to be rapidly building into something more worthy of keeping the coming Christmas white. He parked the car and went around to his wife's side. As he opened the door, she unfolded a white cane and tapped it against the dusted blacktop, right beside her husband's boot.
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