I wander through the the rows of trees, a cup of cider warming my palms as I breathe in the spicy scent of balsam and fir. Each tree has a name, but I try not to peek. Names are powerful. I want to find the perfect one without being swayed by the story I will inevitably create once I see their title.
It’s Christmas, so my imagination tends towards warmth and whimsy. I like to think all the trees come from one place and are now standing next to their forest neighbour, wondering about the next phase of their journey. They each have a story that belies the cute tags on their branches. A decade is plenty of time to develop a history. I imagine they look at us, wondering in the same way about our stories and the traditions they will bear witness to over the holidays.
Our tree this year is named Ursula. I giggle, thinking about how incongruous this is: a balsam fir named after the villain from the Little Mermaid. Yet in some ways, perfect, for a tropical baby like me.