About the time we were old enough
to help decorate the Christmas tree,
our mother shared tinsel with us.

She said that year we could do the tinsel,
but she had to do the delicate ornaments
passed down through a long line
of crafty crafters in family and church—
is there a difference?

We sat on our knees on the floor
around the box of tinsel.
Its silver threads were a great mystery to us.

What would it feel like?
Was it all attached and we tore pieces off?
Who could decorate the best among us?

I, being the oldest female,
knew I had to show up strong in this department
or chance being internalized as
sweet and good for her try
but not the outcome.

Luckily, I’d observed my mother
decorating the tree for years before now.
I knew a toss and a sprinkle,
a light wrist and gentle finger-tease
would get the tinsel pieces
spread evenly all over the tree.

There were three of us
ready to deploy—
our imaginations set
on dressing that tree
with all our hearts.

A frenzy occurred,
hands flinging,
smiles bright,
and then our mother said
the box was all out.

We stepped back
to take in our handiwork
and all agreed
it was perfect.

The tree had never looked
better than this.
There it stood—
tall and proud—
a completely tinseled tree,
silver from top to bottom,
hiding even the lights,
even the ornaments
behind curtains of dazzle.

“Awesome!” we shouted,
and went back to coloring
on the floor.

When father appeared from his room,
he took one look at the tree
and asked our mother,
“Why so much tinsel?
You can’t see anything else.”

She said, “Shh…
the kids decorated it.”

His dislike meant
we’d have to take
half the tinsel down,
but we held in our hearts
the true tree already—
cascades of icing,
silver and perfect.

No one can still
the vision of children.

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