I walked by this dried Christmas tree on my way home from Elle’s apartment last night. It looked so abandoned and sad, somehow. I wondered if the tree had fulfilled its purpose while its pines were still green, glimmering with hanging ornaments, and surrounded by a heap of gifts topsy-turvily placed around its base. Looking at it now, I can’t help but wonder: did the tree get to witness laughter, joy, singing, and excitement as Christmas cards were read aloud, colorful wrapping paper torn open, and presents revealed? Was the old tree left against the building’s entrance temporarily, or simply abandoned by someone who couldn’t be bothered to dispose of it properly?

I can’t even remember when we last had a Christmas tree. It might have been in Vejbystrand or possibly as far back as when Elle was still living at home, half a decade ago.I do recall several idyllic Christmases in Trollhättan at my maternal grandparents’ house. I also know (now) that there was no shortage of intrigue behind the scenes on Örtagårdsvägen 17. Grandmother Agnes did her very best to make the gathering of the various aunts and their families a joyous occasion. She ensured that us kids didn’t have to witness too much of the jealousy-fueled feuds that plagued our family over the years.

As far as Christmas in L.A. goes, well, I don’t really remember them in much detail. We usually had a Christmas tree, and I have a faint memory of decorating them, but not much else. One year, I brought a tree home from the Mayfair Market on Santa Monica Boulevard. I had been working with the guy selling Christmas trees right outside the supermarket, carrying those he had nailed onto wooden stands to customers’ cars. I don’t remember what I made – maybe a dollar an hour – so the Christmas tree was probably a bonus.