The Final Firs of Christmas

The last Christmas trees in the bin stood gazing around. They were barer by the day, dry as the Gobi, and you could take one home for the low deal of one whole dollar.

And the evergreens spoke in hushed voices, anxious as they were.


‘It’s okay.’

‘Fine, really.’

‘Plenty of time.’

‘There’s still time.’

‘Gifts need a tree.’

‘So much time left.’

‘More than enough.’

‘An abundance, really.’

‘People do need trees.’

‘Sure, if you think about it.’

‘It is Christmas morning, after all.’

‘Lots of ornaments waiting for us.’

‘Can’t find a better bargain than this.’

‘Maybe next year, maybe better luck then.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Fine, really.’

‘Are you crying?’

‘Watering myself.’


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