I pulled out the photo once again and studied it for a moment. I held it up in front of the tree to see how all the white origami birds were situated on the branches.
Kim’s mother would decorate their tree differently every year. Ever since I met Kim, she had always said her favorite tree was the one from when she was eleven and her mother spent hours folding little white origami birds. She had dusted each one with silver glitter so they would catch the sparkle of the white twinkle lights. Her mother passed away a month ago, and I wanted to do something special for her.
“What the hell is that?” I sniffed again put couldn’t place it.
I checked the time, knowing Kim would be home from the store soon, and my hike out of the woods had taken way too long.
Rushing to the spare room, I climbed the ladder to reach the shelf and pulled down the hidden shoe box. I was very proud of myself that I had started this project early. I had thirty-four birds ready to go with little clips glued to the bottoms to easily hook onto the branches.
I held up the string of lights and started to put them on the tree. The fine branches made it hard to keep them there, and I was glad no one was around to see how much I struggled to get them on.
Sure, they weren’t on very evenly, and there were parts that were in clusters, but that was the first time I’d ever done the light bit, and I was pretty impressed.
One by one, I attached the birds, just like the photo, and even made sure they were all facing the correct direction. I was tempted to add a stuffed cat on the top with a mouth full of feathers, but I wasn’t sure if she’d see the humor in that, given this was a sentimental tree.
“Just a few more tweaks, and there we go.” I stepped back and admired my work. It wasn’t prefect, but hell, I’d bet Alfred Hitchcock would be proud. I thought it was perfect, and Kim was well worth the fuss.
“Okay, that’s finished.” I continued chatting to myself out loud, as it always brought me comfort, even as a child. “Oh, yes, the fire needs another log.” I carefully placed a log and moved to the kitchen to see if her beers were chilled. “Yes. Everything is coming together.” I held up my hands and saw the tips of a couple of my fingers were still white. Damn Raynaud’s. It always kicked in when my hands got cold, and the tree branches were only just beginning to thaw. I glanced at the still empty driveway and quickly placed the bakery cookies on a plate and felt like everything was as good as it could be. I reached to turn off the TV, just catching the weather guy gloating about the fact that we were getting more snow tonight. Of course, we were.
I struggled into my favorite oversized sweater, which was really just a size medium, but when you were as short as I was—well, I liked to pretend it was size huge. Stepping out on the chilly patio, I waited to hear her car.
Twenty minutes later, I raced to the steps and was disappointed to see her face was far from festive.
“Hey,” I stopped her from entering the door, “are you still mad over our tiff?”
“No.” She sighed and brushed some pine needles off her coat. “Let’s just say the corner of Carol Street and Radley has a tree now.”
I glared at her. “I told you I had it covered.”
“Mm…” She waited for me to move, but when I didn’t, she crossed her arms, unamused. “What?”
“I did something.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, what now?”
“First, thank you.” I swatted her arm. “Second, I did some digging and got a bit creative, and well…” I stepped back and let her pass and waited to hear her excitement.
“Why does it smell like cat piss in here?”
“What?”
She started to cough, and her eyes went red. “Was Lloyd here? Did he spray?”
“No. What are you talking about?” I raced in and turned the corner and took a huge whiff. “Oh, my God.” I wanted to barf. “Where is that coming from?”
“Oh, wow, babe,” she whispered through a cough, “that’s just like the one my mother made!”
“This was supposed to be special. Not smell like a week-old litter box. I don’t understand.”
Kim moved over and rubbed the tree branch between her fingers. “You picked a cat-piss spruce, not a Douglas fir.”
“Huh?” I was so confused. A Christmas tree was a Christmas tree.
“This is a white spruce, commonly known as a cat-piss spruce.” Her smirk slipped out, and I wanted to scream, only the idea of letting that smell inside my body again made me internalize my rage.
“This is one of the most thoughtful things you’ve ever done, babe, but it needs to go!”
With defeat and disappointment heavy on my chest, I started to remove the birds as Kim answered her phone.
