Our Christmas tree is absolutely perfect, I thought.
I sat in the middle of the hardwood floor in the living room, legs crossed, tying a bow around a bunch of tiny candy canes I was planning to affix to a present. All of the lights were out except the tiny white lights that twine with pine garland up the banister, and again across the mantelpiece. And, of course, the lights on our beautiful Christmas tree.
We'd found the blue spruce earlier that day in a lot up the street where all the trees were $25. Most of them were far from perfect, ranging from Charlie Brown trees that just needed a little love to hulking monstrosities that would have consumed even our nine-foot ceilings. This one was still there, though, waiting for us - perhaps it's because the needles are fairly sharp. We only cared that it was tall and beautifully shaped, though, so we had it baled and brought it home.
After struggling with the old stand, going out for a new one, and wrestling it into position several times, we spent a couple of hours off and on hanging each decoration: the ornaments I'd collected myself, over the last several years; the ornaments of my childhood that my mother gave me two years ago; the delicate glass bubbles, pale blue balls, and tiny straw ornaments we'd purchased together in the last month. We both like the same kind of tree - colored, cluttered, eclectic. Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker wage a battle just below delicate spun glass angels; the bust of Rupert Giles swings merrily next to a crocheted snowflake; a Hallmark rocking horse ornament from 1976 dangles just next to the mouse from If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. Multi-colored and white lights twinkle together, and a gold star perches on top (and leans just slightly to the left).
Afterwards we sat in front of it for a long time, talking about how beautiful it was, our first Christmas tree in this house together. We both sat there with our feet stretched out in front of us, supporting our weight on our hands, our shoulders just barely touching. Looking at the lights. Relaxing in the peace of the moment, with Ella on the stereo.
Several minutes went by. Our low, sentimental conversation had lapsed into a companionable silence. He stood up, went upstairs to use the bathroom. I reached for the aforementioned candy canes and red ribbon, and began to struggle to tie them together. When he came back downstairs a few minutes later, I asked him to help. We struggled with the bow for a second before I finally laid them back down on the floor and fastened them awkwardly together.
Come here for a second, he said quietly, pulling on my shoulder gently. I turned toward him. I have one last ornament, he said.
I smiled. That's so sweet. You bought a special ornament?
He went on to tell me quietly that the night had been perfect. That he loved me. That the tree was beautiful, and he loved decorating it with me.
And then he showed me the ring.
How about we do this every year for the rest of our lives?
And I cried.
Greg says I only nodded yes before throwing my arms around his neck, but I remember at least mouthing yes if nothing else. And then crying. And then having him put the ring on. And then crying again. And then calling my mom to say, tearfully and so, so happily -
We're engaged!
