I’ve been eyeing the runt of a Christmas tree for the better part of an hour and I can’t help but feel sad for it. I’ve drifted past it a half dozen times; eyed it while I’ve sat her writing, pretending not to notice it lest the guys catch me in my emotions.

The tip of the tree is tall enough to graze the underside of my chin. Artificial limbs jut haphazard in all directions like stubby green pipe cleaners. Pine needles that are neither pine nor needle adorn this forlorn caricature.

Someone invested the time to twist sparkly craft ties onto the limbs in desperate attempt to breathe life into the lifeless. Aluminum pull tabs from crumpled pop cans dangle from the limbs like poor man offerings. They dot branches without rhyme nor reason. Cutouts of Santa, reindeer, and wreaths of holly fill in the recesses of this sad creation. I recognize the “ornaments.” They’ve been excised from empty Little Debbie snack boxes from the trash. The wreaths look as if they were torn out rather than cut.

Handkerchiefs drawn with penciled images of presents wrap the tripod base. I can’t help but notice that the images are of children’s toys; there’s baseball with bat, bicycle with training wheels, and Barbie Dolls peering through unwrapped box windows. I wonder if the person who drew these is a parent? I wonder if these were once gifts he gave to his children? I wonder a lot of things.

When I exit the unit to go outside I must pass the tree. When I enter the unit I must pass the tree. When I cross the dayroom I must pass the tree. It seems, no matter what I do I am confronted with the tree.

I’m told a contest is raging for the best holiday decorated housing unit. For the moment I’m lifted at the thought, but then I take in my surroundings. The far corner of the dayroom shelters two filthy dilapidated floor buffers. They’re still used to buff scuff marks from the room’s no wax tiles; blue 50 gallon rubber trash cans stack against the opposite corner. During summer months the cans ferry cold water via carts to the garden. The rest of the year they’re magnets drawing balled paper free throws, wads of used gum, candy wrappers, spiders and mice; in the near corner rests our exhausted rusted flatbed cart with wheels that vibrate when rolled. Someone has flipped it upsidedown. The remaining corner of the dayroom isn’t a corner at all. It opens to an entry way leading into the suffocating bowels of the unit’s community restroom, where men struggle to hit urinals and a contact buzz from marijuana is an ever present threat. At least, I assume it’s marijuana smoke as there’s no telling with these men.

I’m curious. So I set this post aside and lay the pen across the sheet of scribbled sentences and crossed out lines I call a first draft. I make my way across the dayroom. In front of the tree I fold my arms and frown. I can’t help but wonder who sought to spread joy by erecting this crazy thing. I have yet to witness anyone around it. One day the tree wasn’t here, the next it was.

I love Christmas. I grew up loving Christmas because mom and dad made it magical for us boys. I still remember the crisp December night when dad opened the backdoor and told us boys to listen. Just listen, he had said. I planted my feet motionless on the back deck, my brothers Jim and John at my side, while the cold rooted through my pajamas. Snowflakes fell upon my arms and then disappeared. I waited.

From in the distance came the jingle of bells, far enough to mesmerize us boys but close enough to hear. I looked skyward. Dad smiled down at me.

The Christmas tree embodied joy and love in our home. Each year we selected the tree from the local tree farm and lugged it home. Erecting the tree was a family affair and mom always took the lead. We boys decorated branches until they arched from the weight of our imaginations; red/green ceramic bulbs, strings of popcorn that wound around and around, blinking lights and candy canes. I loved to run my hand along the soft pine needles. For the remainder of the year, until New Year’s day, sweet pine scents soaked into every crevice of our home. If I close my eyes and sit long enough I can still remember the aroma to this day.

A couple of years ago I received a Christmas card from mom. I had no idea how much this card would come to mean to me in the years since, and when I opened it I gasped. Traced within the simple single fold card was the outline of my favorite Christmas ornament from childhood — Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Year after year I positioned the golden ornament on the same spot of each tree. Rudolph even had a faux ruby nose.

My thoughts have been interrupted by two men playing nearby at the Nintendo Wii console. My housing unit placed first this month in the monthly housekeeping inspection and this is one of the perks. I marvel at the graphics of the game system, they’ve come a long way from what I remember. I’m told we also receive an extra commissary shopping day. I had no idea such perks existed. My unit never places first for cleanliness for the men are like wild animals content to live in dirt dens. It got me to thinking. The holidays come and go in prison but are never the same. Some years there’s joy amongst the men despite it all.

I gazed down at the Christmas tree. The pop can pull tabs and twist ties glinted and glimmered beneath the bright LED lighting of the dayroom. I side glanced to my left, then right. The men seemed distracted by more important things than me — so I made my move.

I dug the cut out Rudolph ornament from my pocket. I had colored it in with gold Sharpe marker and glued a red skittle for the nose. I reached for a mid level limb like I had done dozens of times in a previous life, hooked the bent paperclip around so that Rudolph rested secure. I stepped back and smiled. Maybe, I mused, we could win the holiday decoration contest after all.

—Christopher

S. Quimby webmaster     I apologize for not posting this marvelous piece on Christmas eve or day as he had requested.