Childless at Christmas

My childhood Christmases were scenes straight off a Hallmark card. My family put up a real tree each year, usually cut from my grandparents' land. They'd position the tree just right (with the inevitable bare spot in the back), lacing it with colored lights and silver tinsel, piling presents under it day by day until Christmas finally came. All morning, while fresh white snow swirled in the frigid Maine air outside, and the wood stove warmed us inside, we took turns unwrapping endless ribboned mysteries. Later, we made our way back to my grandparents' house for a farm-fresh dinner and spent the afternoon with cousins skating on the pond.