By Joli Huelskamp
“I don’t see it anywhere,” said my husband, emerging from behind the naked Christmas tree. “Are you sure we even hung it?”
It was New Year’s Day, when we traditionally took down the holiday decorations. I was pretty strict about this, probably in response to my mother’s tradition of leaving her tree up until late January. We always joked that some year she’d be hanging red hearts on its dry branches in February.
“Of course we did,” I insisted. “We hung all five of them and now I only have four.” I held out the square of tissue paper where the tiny ornaments nestled: wooden snowmen, no bigger than a thumbnail, each different, painted with a few quick brushstrokes and hanging from cheerful cords: pink, yellow, blue, orange. The green one was missing.
We bought them at a flea market for our first Christmas tree. We’d acquired some unusual ornaments over the years, including a cute helicopter piloted by two rabbits, but the snowmen were our favorites.
“We’ll be late to your mom’s,” said my husband. “Let’s check again later tonight.”
Mom’s house still glowed with holiday spirit – the big tree with glass beads, the little tree with popcorn strings, the crèche with the ox missing a horn – but everyone was in letdown mode. My sister had already exchanged the scarf I’d given her and my niece said the carrot cake I’d brought “looked like puke.”
Our apartment felt bare and sad when we got home later. No sign of the missing snowman, either. My husband carried the tree out to the dumpsters. “The holidays are officially over,” he announced on his return.
*
The commute next morning was cold and rainy. The “waterproof” boots my best friend had given me weren’t; I dried my feet with paper towels in the restroom. Most people were back at work, but the office was subdued. A few people shared photos of family dinners, Florida vacations. At ten, an executive summoned our team into the conference room for an announcement: Our supervisor had been let go early that morning, we were now reassigned to the Conversion effort, and we had to move from our cubes to bullpens by end of day to make room for incoming consultants.
Our cafeteria table was gloomy at lunchtime; the supervisor had been well-respected. The cafeteria’s A-team was clearly off duty; the beef stroganoff was gray and the salad bar lettuce was slimy. After moving to my new station in the bullpen, I began reviewing the Conversion requirements. It was going to be a tangled, complex, migraine-inducing monster of a project. “The holidays are officially over,” announced a coworker as we left the building together and walked out into the rain.
*
The freeway was backed up. It was late when I pulled into the apartment complex and looked for a spot. My headlights caught something familiar as I drove past the pile of discarded Christmas trees by the dumpsters.
Our apartment felt warm and cozy. My husband had dinner well underway; a crisp salad sat on the table and a rich stroganoff aroma filled the room. “What a day!” he called from the kitchen. I walked over and gave him a hug.
“The holidays are officially over,” I announced with a smile, holding up the fifth snowman by its cheerful green cord.
* * *
Joli Huelskamp lives in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Her work appears in a number of online journals, including Brilliant Flash Fiction, ONE ART, and Kings River Life. Please visit jolihuelskamp.com for a complete list.